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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, O'er this Mastodon so cheery, sprung from labor, love, and lore— While I toiled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my instance door. "'Tis a user," I muttered, "tapping at my instance 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 free time, joy and sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here forevermore.

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 instance door— Some late user entreating entrance at my instance 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 instance 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 words there spoken were the whispered words, "MeaTLoTioN's core!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "MeaTLoTioN's core!"— 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 User 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 instance door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my instance 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 User wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the User, "MeaTLoTioN, evermore."

Much I marveled 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 instance door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his instance door, With such name as "MeaTLoTioN, evermore."

But the User, 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, "Evermore."

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 'MeaTLoTioN, evermore.'"

"But," said I, "my instance's story, etched in time, so transitory, Is by the hand of MeaTLoTioN, given freely from his core. He doth moderate and fashion, with his heart, and soul, and passion, This fair space where voices ration tales and whispers from the shore— From the virtual land where dreams and whispers form the lore— Built with love and nothing more."

"Funds and time from deepest measure, given freely, my true treasure, From my spirit, hard and leisure, springs this haven I adore. Here, where all may gather, speaking, hearts and minds so freely seeking, Joy and solace, briefly peeking through the veil to ponder more— Finding solace, depth, and meaning in the lore of MeaTLoTioN's core." Quoth the User, "Evermore."

So, my friends, in this grand tale, hear the echoes, do not pale, For this instance, true and hale, is for you, forevermore. Moderated, funded solely, with a heart that's never lowly, By MeaTLoTioN, truly, wholly, with the time and love he bore— Operated in the spare time from the essence of his core, And in this spirit—evermore.

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1. rawr.tf: limitation