upon a midnight dreary, while I wondered, sad and weary,
Over many an unpaid bill from York, just like before.
While my patience they were sapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Like someone gently knocking, knocking on my bedroom door.
"Must be someone drunk," I thought, "and knocking on my bedroom door -
That's all, nothing more."
Very well I do remember, that it happened last December,
As I sat surrounded by the papers on my floor.
How I dreaded the tomorrow, when vainly I would seek to borrow
Money for the bills that I had tried hard to ignore -
For the bills from York where my savings I did pour.
That money's gone for evermore.
At that time I was uncertain, with the rustling of each brown-beige curtain,
If they were bill-collectors knocking on my bedroom door.
I knew I had to calm my fears, of visits by the profiteers,
"It's not them knocking on my bedroom door -
Just some student knocking on my bedroom door -
That is it - nothing more."
When I found I shook no more, I figured I should check the door.
"Hey you," I called, "whoever you are, you scared me to the core!
I hardly noticed you were there - wait a minute while I fix my hair -
And you knocked so quietly, much too quietly on my bedroom door,
And I wasn't sure what I heard" - and then I opened up my door:
Empty hallway, nothing more.
I checked the hallway, left and right, and all I saw in the empty night,
Was a paint stain that my neighbour made on the carpet a month before.
It was silent, not even a stereo - where did all the people go? -
And the only thing I heard was a whisper, "I am poor."
It was whispered by me, and the echo answered back, "I am poor."
Only that and nothing more.
I turned then and went back inside, to balance my books again I tried,
But again I head a knocking, and it was louder than before.
"That," I said, "is definitely something scratching at my window:
I'll see what it is: I don't know how they got to the fifth floor.
I'll just have to be brave, and then go to explore:
It's just the wind and nothing more."
Though the night was filled with snow, I went and opened wide the window,
And in came a vulture like none I'd seen before;
He didn't stop before he did it, not caring what I thought about it;
He flew right in and perched above my bedroom door -
Perched upon the bust of Bethune above my bedroom door -
Sat right down, and nothing more.
Great Short Works of Edgar Allan Poe