sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning,
which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at
once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure is, I believe, found in the
contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a
quality, as is supposed, but an effect- they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of
soul- not of intellect, or of heart- upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in
consequence of contemplating the "beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the
poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from
direct causes- that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment- no
one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to is most readily
attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object
Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far
more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion, a homeliness
(the truly passionate will comprehend me), which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty
which, I maintain, is the excitement or pleasurable elevation of the soul. It by no means follows,
from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
introduced, into a poem for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do
discords in music, by contrast- but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into
proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in
that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.
Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest
manifestation- and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever
kind in its supreme development invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus
the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary
induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note
in the construction of the poem- some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In
carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects- or more properly points, in the theatrical
sense- I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as
that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value,
and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to
its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon
the force of monotone- both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense
of identity- of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by adhering in
general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I
determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the
refrain- the refrain itself remaining for the most part, unvaried.
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application
was to be repeatedly varied it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have
been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length.
In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This
led me at once to a single word as the best refrain.
The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain,
the division of the poem into stanzas was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the close to
each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted
emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the
most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying
this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had
pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact it was the very first which presented itself.
The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore." In
observing the difficulty which I had at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for
its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
preassumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human
being- I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this
monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then,
immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech, and very naturally, a
parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.
I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of ill-omen, monotonously repeating
the one word "Nevermore" at the conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in
length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object- supremeness or perfection
at all points, I asked myself- "Of all melancholy topics what, according to the universal
understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And when,"
I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at
some length the answer here also is obvious- "When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the
death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and
equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven
continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had to combine these, bearing in mind my
design of varying at every turn the application of the word repeated, but the only intelligible
mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the
queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on
which I had been depending, that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I
could make the first query propounded by the lover- the first query to which the Raven should
reply "Nevermore"- that I could make this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the
third still less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the
melancholy character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the
ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and wildly
propounds queries of a far different character- queries whose solution he has passionately at
heart- propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in