directly as possible.
With the denouement proper- with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if
he shall meet his mistress in another world- the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple
narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits of the
accountable- of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and
having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a
storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams- the chamber-window of a
student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased.
The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on
the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who amused by the incident
and the oddity of the visitor's demeanour, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply,
its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"- a word which
finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to
certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before
explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such
queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the
anticipated answer, "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self-torture, the
narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far
there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
But in subjects so handled, however skillfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there
is always a certain hardness or nakedness which repels the artistical eye. Two things are
invariably required- first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and,
secondly, some amount of suggestiveness- some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning.
It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow
from colloquy a forcible term), which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the
excess of the suggested meaning- it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under-current of
the theme- which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind), the so-called poetry of the
so-called transcendentalists.
Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem- their suggestiveness
being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of
meaning is rendered first apparent in the line-
"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"
It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the first metaphorical expression
in the poem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that
has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical- but it
is not until the very last line of the very last stanza that the intention of making him emblematical
of Mournful and never ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore.