In Baltimore, by harbor-side, where chilling waters ebb and flow, And lamplight on the somber tide casts forth a phosphorescent glow, A silence held the weighted air, upon a stage of spectral wood, A vacant space of grim despair where Rams Head’s ghost had lately stood. A hollow hall, a darkened door, that shall be empty—nevermore.
The former quiet at the core, the hush of strings no longer strummed, Has fled like some forgotten lore, by a new, frantic spirit numbed. For from the dust, with thunderous sound, a new life wakes within the walls, Where vibrant, pulsing beats abound, and gothic, grand, electric squalls Now shake the beams and thrill the floor, to banish stillness evermore.
They’ve wrought a name from shadowed lore, a whispered word from nights of dread, The bleak refrain a poet bore, from out his sorrow-stricken head. But here the word is not of pain, nor of a love that’s lost in vain, It is a promise, an encore, a vow that moping is a bore, A cry that silence reigns—nay, nevermore!
So let the chords like tempests crash, let sepulchral basses roar, Let cymbals glitter, gleam, and flash, and synths like spectral sirens soar. Let drums in thunderous tumult beat a frantic, soul-possessing feat, Let vocals cry from deep within the glorious and gothic din, From gilded rail to entry-door, let no one be complacent—nevermore.
So gather, ye, with joyful cries, with fevered and fantastic eyes, Before this stage, a fresh-built tomb for all the quiet and the gloom. The Raven’s city, proud and vast, its prophet’s shadow ever-cast, Now finds a place to shout for more, from floor to spectral-painted door! This hallowed hall shall be morose—ah, nevermore!
