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Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
BY WALT WHIT MAN
Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face! Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you also face to face. Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me! On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose, And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. 2 The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day, The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme, The similitudes of the past and those of the future, The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river, The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away, The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them, The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others. Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore, Others will watch the run of the flood-tide, Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east, Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high, A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide. 3 It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not, I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence, Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd, Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d, Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried, Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d. I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old, Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow, Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south, Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water, Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward, Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars, The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset, The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night, Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets. 4 These and all else were to me the same as they are to you, I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river, The men and women I saw were all near to me, Others the same—others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them, (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.) 5 What is it then between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it, I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me, I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution, I too had receiv’d identity by my body, That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body. 6 It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw its patches down upon me also, The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious, My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil, I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d, Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant, The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting, Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you! Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sunlit water! Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset! Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses! Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are, You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul, About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung out divinest aromas, Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers, Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual, Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting. You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers, We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward, Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us, We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us, We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also, You furnish your parts toward eternity, Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.
A Critical Analysis of “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" is a poem about a man taking the Brooklyn ferry home from Manhattan at the end of a working day. It is one of Walt Whitman’s best-known and best- loved poems because it so astutely and insightfully argues for Whitman's idea that all humans are united in their common experience of life. A long poem in nine sections, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" prepares us for the final poem of Leaves of Grass , when Whitman writes, "Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, / Missing me one place search another, / I stop somewhere waiting for you." Whitman achieves, in these two poems, an intimacy of address and commonality of experience that bridge the gap between writer and reader. This poem first appeared in the 1856 edition and received its final modifications for the 1881 edition. While “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” like most of Whitman’s poems, contains little in the way of a describable formal structure, it features a great deal of random internal patterning created by the repetition of words and phrases. This sense of repetition and revisiting reinforces the thematic content of the poem, which looks at the possibility of continuity within humanity based on common experiences. Whitman's narrator begins the poem "seeing" the flood tide and the setting sun more clearly than his fellow passengers on the ferry; he regards the crowds as so removed from him that he cannot understand them: Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me. On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose, And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, that you might suppose. As the speaker shifts from addressing the crowd to the second person, something strange happens: the crowds become not only the literal crowds of commuters on the ferry, but also, more expansively, everyone who has ever ridden the ferry, and then, finally everyone who has returned home, including the reader of the poem. Throughout the poem, he alternately despairs of his distance from his fellow men, and then feels himself coming to know them, as in the fifth section where he writes, "Closer yet I approach you." As if to mimic the "ebb-tide" and the "flood tide" that Whitman continually refers to in the poem, the poem itself moves closer, as in the intimate address of the first section, and then farther away, as in the second section, where Whitman begins to list a series of abstract, meditative observances, each beginning with "the" and using passive, verb-less syntax. With phrases like "The similitude of the past and those of the future," and "the others that are to follow me, the ties between them and me," he creates a rocking motion within each line, as well as a kind of distance between the speaker and the reader. In addition, the expansive anaphoric lines mimic the movement of the boat and the ebb and flow of the tides, which is at once comforting, mesmerizing, and even, in its repetition, numbing.
not that the seagull he sees is either "bright" or "dark" but equally both, two opposites existing in one body, a contradiction. The second central image of the poem is that of the speaker leaning over the edge of the boat with the sun behind his head and, seeing spokes of light surrounding his face, imagining that another passenger, endless numbers of other passengers, will someday look into the water and see the same thing. "Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water / Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams / Look'd at the fine centrifugul spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water." By the end of the poem, he treats this image rather differently: "Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or anyone's head, in the sunlit water." Throughout this poem, the speaker becomes somewhat casual about physical identity and ownership of a particular body. If he claims that we will see what he sees, then we must, in some sense, be the same person—so that ultimately it doesn't matter whose head he sees there in the water. The circle in the water is his head, the reader's head, and the sun itself at the same time, and so the experience of looking into the water is both great and small. Because he is describing such a particular angle, no onlooker would be able to see what he saw, but at the same time, the sun itself might see it, or anyone looking into the water might see it with his own face. The light at his back divides him in two, like the seagulls; his back is dark while his face is lit. There is something about this vision that is disorienting as well. He claims to be "dazzled" by the "shimmering track of beams" as if it is the light that has made him momentarily lose reason and imagine himself to be a kind of ambassador to the future, telling us that he is thinking of us, that he has, as he says in Part 7, "consider'd long and seriously of you before you were born." The ninth and final section of the poem revisits each imagistic line, almost word for word, as if in an incantation, but transforms the simple fragments to imperatives: Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current; Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you! It is strange and beautiful here that Whitman, known for his endless generative powers, would return to each image, almost in comfort, hypnotically, to remind us of the connection between past and present, writer and reader, and to enact the scene that he is setting, where the same visions might be seen twice, one passively (reading about it) and one actively (seeing it for oneself). This section, and the poem, culminates in a final stanza where Whitman uses the pronoun "we" for the first time, as if reader and writer have finally been joined together, but also literally referring to how the passengers are seeing, at last, those on the shore who are waiting for them: You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers, We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us, We use you, and do not cast you aside-we plant you permanently within us, We fathom you not-we love you-there is perfection in you also, You furnish your parts toward eternity, Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul. As the reader, we are at once the future "perfection," waiting for the arrival of the ferry, but because we are now presently living, we are the travellers as well. In the final line, Whitman refers to "the soul," as if there were only one, without ownership (i.e. not your soul, and not my soul). Whitman has united the disparate elements of the crowd and has drawn closer to his fellow travellers by imagining a unified whole. The dualities of the poem are resolved: light and dark, reader and writer, past and future, life and death—all become momentarily the
same as the ferry approaches the shore.
This poem seeks to determine the relationship of human beings to one another across time and space. Whitman wonders what he means (not as a poet but as another anonymous individual) to the crowds of strangers he sees every day. He assumes that they see the same things he does, and that they react in the same way, and that this brings them together in a very real sense. This poem can be profitably compared to Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” and Coleridge’s “This Lime-tree Bower.” In both of those poems someone important to the poet—Wordsworth’s sister, Coleridge’s friend—is taken to a place that has been important to the poet. Wordsworth accompanies his sister, and is able to take delight in seeing her repeat his experience. Coleridge is not able to go with his friend, however, and he sits at home, wondering if his friend’s experience will have any meaning for either of them. While Wordsworth is more concerned with the idea of the power of place, Coleridge, like Whitman, is more interested in the relevance of shared experience, and its ability to potentially transcend barriers of space and mortality. In the end Whitman seems to give more credence to shared experience than Coleridge does. Reminding himself that others have seen, and fifty years from now will still be seeing, the islands of New York City, he realizes that others have also shared his range of emotional and spiritual experience. This makes him significant as an individual but also part of a larger whole. Curiously this leads Whitman to turn to the physical as a locus for identity. The body is both a vehicle for individual specificity and a means by which to partake of common experience: it is where the self and the world come together. In his description of the New York waterfront Whitman does not differentiate between the natural and the man-made. Steamships and buildings are described in the same terms as seagulls and waves. This seems to be Whitman’s nod to historical specificity, which can disrupt continuity of experience. Fifty years before Whitman’s ferry crossing, the steamships and the skyline were not there, and he knows this. It is these minor changes that enable him to be specific, and that allow perspective on human existence.
The Raven
By Edgar Allan 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 visitor,” 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 sought 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor 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. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.” But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore’.” But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
Stanza wise analysis
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe is a popular narrative poem written in the first person, that centers around the themes of loss and self-analysis. The raven personifies the feeling of intense grief and loss, while other symbols throughout the poem reinforce a melodramatic mood that emphasizes the main character’s grief and loss. This poem explores the world of emotional wars that individuals face in all walks of life; specifically, the fight one can never ignore, the fight of control over the emotions of grief and loss. These battles are not physical, but leave scarring and bruising just as if they were. Poe has produced a wonderful piece of work that resonates with the feelings and experiences of every reader that comes across this poem. First Stanza The opening line of this poem proves to be quite theatrical; initiating with the classic, “once upon a - ” and introducing a typical melodramatic, “weak and weary” character who is evidently lost in thought during a particularly boring night. He claims to be thinking and “pondering” over volumes of old traditions of knowledge. As he nods off to sleep while reading, he is interrupted by a tapping sound. It sounds as if someone is “gently” knocking on his “chamber door”. He mutters to himself that it must be a visitor, since what else could it possibly be? The first stanza of Poe’s The Raven exposes a story that the reader knows will be full of drama. The imagery in just this stanza alone, gives the reader a very good idea that the story about to unfold is not a happy one. The scene opens on a “dreary” or boring midnight and a “weak and weary” character. The quiet midnight paints a picture of mystery and suspense for the reader, whilst an already tired out and exhausted character introduces a tired out and emotionally exhausted story – as we later learn that the character has suffered a great deal before this poem even begins. To further highlight the fatigued mood, he is even reading “forgotten lore” which is basically old myths/folklore that were studied by scholars (so we assume the character is a scholar/student of sorts). The words “forgotten” and ‘nothing more’ here sneak in the theme of loss that is prevalent in this poem. We are also introduced to our first symbol: the chamber door; which symbolizes insecurity. The chamber door functions as any door would, it opens the characters room/home to the outside world; and we will notice that it is also a representation of the insecurities and weaknesses of the character as he opens them up to the world outside of him. In this stanza, something is coming and “tapping” at his insecurities and weaknesses (the chamber door) due to him pondering and getting lost in thought. Second Stanza We are quickly jolted from the scene of the stranger knocking at the door into the thoughts of the speaker. Here, he pauses to educate the reader, that this sight was taking place during the “bleak” December when “dying” embers from a fire were casting “ghost” like shadows on the floor. He was wishing for the night to pass faster, desperately trying to escape the sadness of losing Lenore, by busying himself in his books. It becomes very obvious that Lenore was someone important to him, as he describes her as a “rare and radiant maiden”, and it also becomes evident that she had died since she was now “nameless forevermore” in the world.
The air of suspense continues to build as Poe shifts the narrative from the tapping on the door to the thoughts of the character. This could also portray that the character himself is avoiding answering the door. If we look at the door symbolizing his weaknesses and insecurities we can easily understand why he would want to avoid opening up to whatever was tapping on it. The diction in this stanza (bleak, separate, dying, ghost, sought, sorrow, and lost) also emphasizes the theme of loss that unfolds in this poem. We can see that Poe is already hinting to the readers the cause of the characters insecurities. The second line in this stanza also foreshadows the end of the poem as it illustrates dying “embers” casting shadows on the floor, it is portraying how trapped the character will be in the shadows of loss. What exactly has he lost? We find that the character is pining for Lenore, a woman who was very dear to him (a girlfriend or wife perhaps) whom he can no longer be with as she has died and is in the company of angels. She becomes “nameless” (again underlining the theme of loss) to him because she does not exist in his world anymore. For him, she is forever lost. Third Stanza The movement of the curtains, even seem “sad” and “uncertain” to him. Watching these curtains rustle and listening to the knocking was turning his miserable and quiet mood into one of anxiety and fear. To calm himself and his quickening heartbeat, he repeated to himself that it was just some visitor who had come to see him in these late hours and “nothing more”. Poe has provided details of the room and its belongings throughout the poem that observably symbolize the feelings of the character. This stanza demonstrates a focus on the emotional state of the character. The purple curtains can easily represent his healing wounds (as purple is the colour of a bruise that is in the beginning stages of recovery); and they are described as sad and uncertain. From this, we can note that the loss of Lenore has left him feeling exactly that: sad and uncertain. This bruise of his “thrilled” him, because it opened the door to thoughts and feelings the character had never ventured before. As he thought about opening the door of insecurities to whatever was knocking at them he becomes excited and terrified at the same time. To calm his fears, he repeats to himself that he’s sure nothing will come out of it. Fourth Stanza The character begins to build some confidence as he draws closer towards the door to see who would come to see him at such an hour. He calls out saying sorry ‘Sir’ or ‘Madame’, he had been napping and the ‘tapping’ at the door was so light that he wasn’t even sure that there was actually someone knocking at the door, at first. As he is saying this, he opens the door only to find nothing but the darkness of the night. As he prepares himself to open the door of his insecurities and weaknesses to whatever awaits, he really has to push through his hesitation. He calls put saying he wasn’t sure whether there was anything there so he hadn’t bothered to open the door and when he finally did, he found nothing. The suspense is heightened after finding nothing but darkness. The reader understands that the character found nothing but darkness waiting for him through his insecurities and weaknesses; nothing but a black hole. This is not different to what anyone would find when they look internally and finally decide to open up and see through all the things that make them think less of themselves; they find a world of darkness (suffering and difficulty). It is not easy to look into yourself and your uncertainties to recognize your suffering and hardships. The character, does not find it easy either.
that this feeling of loss and grief that the character is feeling is literally sitting on his wisdom. It has overpowered his rational thought. Eighth Stanza The entrance of this raven actually puts a smile on the face of the narrator. The bird was so out of place in his chamber but it still “wore” a serious expression as it sat there. The speaker then turns to treat the raven as a noble individual and asks him what his name is in a very dramatic manner. The raven simply replies with ‘nevermore’. When given the chance to face his loss and grief so directly, it seems amusing to the character. So he speaks to the bird. He asks it’s (the bird/his grief) name, as it looked so grand and uncowardly even though it came from the world of suffering (the dark night). The raven spoke and said “nevermore”. His feelings of grief and loss ( the raven ) are reminding him of his greatest pain: nevermore. The raven speaks to him clearly and relays to him that what he had the deepest desire for in this life of his, is now strictly nevermore. Ninth Stanza The narrator is very shocked at actually hearing the raven speak as if it were a natural thing for him. He doesn’t understand how “nevermore” answers the question. So he claims that no one alive or dead has ever witnessed the scene that was before him: a raven sitting on a statue of Pallas named “nevermore”. Here, Poe uncovers for his readers that the character was shocked at the scene of facing his loss and grief only to have it so blatantly speak to him. Call to him the reason for his insecurity and weakness: the finality of “nevermore”. The character claims in this stanza, that no one has ever before been able to have the experience of meeting loss and grief in physical form. He was “blessed” with this opportunity to see his feelings and put a name on it: nevermore. That is the core of his grief and loss, the finality of never living with Lenore again. Tenth Stanza After speaking that one word, the raven did not utter another word. He sat there on the statue very still and quiet. The narrator returns to his grim mood and mutters about having friends who have left him feeling abandoned, just like this bird will likely do. On hearing this, the bird again says: Nevermore. The character accepts the existence of this raven in his life and says he expects it to leave as others usually do. Signifying the reality of his emotions; that he feels just like all other feelings come and go, so will this feeling of intense grief and loss ( the raven). The raven speaks out and states: nevermore. Highlighting and foreshadowing that it will not leave. It is going to stay with the character forever. Eleventh Stanza The sudden reply from the raven startles the narrator. He comes to the conclusion that the raven only knows this one word that it has learned from “some unhappy master”. He imagines that the master of this raven must have been through a lot of hardships and so he probably always used the word “nevermore” a great deal, and that is where he believes the bird picked it up.
This stanza is quite interesting as it explores the efforts of the character is trying to ignore the finality of this feeling of grief and loss. He tries to brush it off by hoping that perhaps the previous owner of such feelings was a person who emphasized the finality of such feelings so that is why his grief is responding in such a manner. The thought of having to live with such feelings forever scares the character into denial. Twelfth Stanza The speaker admits that he cannot help but be fascinated by this raven. He basically sets up his chair so that he is seated right in front of the bird, watching it intently. He starts to focus his thoughts on the raven , and what it could possibly mean by repeating the specific word of “nevermore”. Here, the character is clearly getting irritated by the constant presence of such strong feelings. He knows he cannot turn back now, he is the one who opened the door of his insecurities and weaknesses into his suffering and then opened the window of realization, to allow this intense feeling of loss and grief to enter and literally perch on his rational thinking / wisdom. What he is finding hard to swallow is the concept of “nevermore” why can’t these feelings be temporary or a phase? Must they eat at him forever? Thirteenth Stanza He sits there coming up with theories to explain the raven and its behaviour to himself, without actually speaking aloud in the company of this bird. Even so, he felt as though its “fiery eyes” could see through him, straight to his heart. So he continues to ponder and be lost in thought as he reclines on a soft velvet cushion that the lamplight was highlighting in the room. The sight of the cushion gleaming in the lamplight sends him spiralling into the heart wrenching reminder that Lenore will never get a chance to touch that cushion again, now that she’s gone. Poe underlines the fact that the character has so much more feeling than what he tackles when he confronts his grief. As he contemplates over the concreteness of the words “nevermore” he relapses into memories of Lenore. The cushion symbolizes his connection to his physical life. As he battles with his emotions, the cushion reminds him that his beloved Lenore will never share his physical space and life again. She will never again, physically be in his company. Fourteenth Stanza Here the narrator seems to start hallucinating; perhaps he is lost too deep in his thoughts. He starts to feel as though the air around him is getting thicker with perfume or a scent. He thinks he is seeing angels there who are bringing this perfume /scent to him. He calls himself a wretch because he feels this is God sending him a message to forget Lenore, comparing the scent to “nepenthe” which is a illusory medicine for sorrow from ancient Greek mythology. He basically yells at himself to drink this medicine and forget the sadness he feels for the loss of Lenore. Almost as if on que, the raven says: nevermore. When he comes to the actual realization that he has lost her physical body forever, he begins to panic. He can literally smell the sweetness of freedom from these feelings that he felt God was allowing him. He thought that it was a divine message to forget Lenore and he wants to accept, he wants out and away from his mess of feelings especially from the certainty the grief keeps claiming that it will last forever. He tries to force himself to let it go, but then the raven speaks. His grief overpowers him and still claims that he will never forget her.
Edgar Allan Poe ends his narrative with a quiet and still character. Quite a change from the last stanzas; it is almost as if he has come to terms with the reality of the situation. As if we are now watching the character from the outside of his head, whilst all the commotion is taking place internally. However, the character lets the reader know that all is not well. The Raven still sits on the statue of Pallas and it looks demon-like whilst casting a shadow that traps him forever. That is significant because it gives the reader closure. It tells the reader that even though the character welcomed the feelings of loss and grief when he opened the window of realization, he despises them now. These emotions appear to him as demonic. And the shadow the cast over him; meaning the mood that is created from these feelings has a permanent hold on his soul. He has been defeated by his feelings after facing them, and he will find peace: nevermore.
