Gustave Doré's Hauntingly Beautiful 1883 Illustrations for Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven"

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

Something uncommonly beautiful takes place when a great artist brings a great writers words to life, doubly so when those words transmit the inherent enchantment of poetry that special cross-pollination of spirits seen in rare masterpieces like William Blakes paintings for Miltons Paradise Lost, Maurice Sendaks formative etchings for Blakes Songs of Innocence, and Milton Glasers drawings for Lord Byrons Don Juan.

More than a century before Italian artist Lorenzo Mattotti created his beautiful illustrations for Lou Reeds reimagining of The Raven, the great French illustrator, sculptor, printmaker, and engraver Gustave Dor (January 6 1832January 23, 1883) took to the Edgar Allan Poe classic. Having previously illustrated works by such literary titans as Dante, Balzac, Milton, Coleridge, Tennyson, and Lord Byron, Dor created a series of stark, beautifully haunting steel-plate engravings for a special edition of The Raven ( public library | free ebook ). It became his final legacy Dor died shortly after completing the illustrations, at the age of fifty-one, and this exquisite edition was posthumously published in 1884.

Prefacing the poem is Poes magnificent instruction on how to enjoy poetry for, lest we forget, the willing readers communion with the poetic spirit is itself an art form:

The secret of a poem, no less than a jests prosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it. Yield to its spell, accept the poets mood: this, after all, is what the sages answer when you ask them of its value. Even though the poet himself, in his other mood, tell you that his art is but sleight of hand, his food enchanters food, and offer to show you the trick of it, believe him not. Wait for his prophetic hour; then give yourself to his passion, his joy or pain The vision has an end, the scene changes; but we have gained something, the memory of a charm.

What we gain in this particular interpretation of Poes joy and pain is a vision triply more powerful than the words alone Dors engravings capture with piercing precision the heart of Poes poem, that bewitching interplay between the light toward which we reach in the grip of longing and the darkness into which longing plunges the psyche when it becomes a nightmarish fixation.

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.
T is 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 sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrowsorrow 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 mefilled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
T is 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 youhere 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 darkness 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;
T is 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 Nights Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaninglittle 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 further then he utterednot 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 Nevernevermore.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 bosoms core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushions velvet lining that the lamplight gloated oer,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating oer
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 theeby these angels he hath sent thee
Respiterespite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Prophet! said I, thing of evil!prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror hauntedtell me truly, I implore

Is there is there balm in Gilead?tell metell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Prophet! said I, thing of evilprophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above, usby that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! I shrieked, upstarting

Get thee back into the tempest and the Nights Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

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 demons that is dreaming,
And the lamplight oer him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be liftednevermore!

http://www.brainpickings.org/2015/08/05/gustav-dore-poe-the-raven/