LITERARY GENIUS
Today is the 162nd anniversary of the first publication of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven. It first appeared in the New York Evening Mirror, though the accepted first version (since it was set in type from the manuscript, rather than from printed proofs) appeared in the February issue of the American Review and is reproduced below. The poem was printed under the pseudonym Quarles, perhaps a nod to Francis Quarles, whose book Emblems (1635) was an influential collection of grotesque illustrations and paraphrased passages from Scripture.
       Like many poems, The Raven has no universally accepted interpretation, though it is widely understood that the poem addresses the finality of death and the absence of consciousness after it (hence the “nevermore” at the end of most of the stanzas). There is a great deal of symbolism: the raven is clearly a messenger from Pluto, Roman god of the underworld (“Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”). He sits upon a bust of Pallas (or Athena), goddess of wisdom, and responds to the speaker’s inquiries with “nevermore,” a practical, real, wise answer. The speaker is ultimately distraught when he asks the raven if his departed Lenore might be found “within the distant Aidenn [Eden],” and the raven responds yet again “nevermore.” The poem, when viewed properly, is sobering in its view that there may be nothing but darkness after death.

THE RAVEN
by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—                 Only this, and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; —vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—                 Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—                 This it is, and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you “—here I opened wide the door;—                 Darkness there and nothing more.