The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Vintage poem print. Typewritten.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Vintage poem print. Typewritten.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Vintage poem print. Typewritten. Close up of text.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Vintage poem print. Typewritten. Close up of distressed look.
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The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

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Each print might look a little different since each one is hand aged.


  • Handmade Item
  • Print Size: 8.5 x 11
  • Frame Sizes: 8.5 x 11  and 11 x 14 
  • Frame Material: Barnwood
  • Framed with glass
  • Made to order
  • Questions? Contact us!

    Humor-ous Description: Display a piece of classic literature with its age and character intact. A unique addition to anyone’s den, office, study, foyer, billiard room, or ballroom. Or maybe you want it in the bathroom, and hey, who are we to judge? We could go on and on trying to combine complicated adjectives to motivate you to purchase our product, in fact we wish we could. But we can’t. We're too busy doing things like trying to age paper without it disintegrating in our hands, or getting our fingers stuck in the mechanism of a 71 year-old death-trap of a typewriter. (Wall behind print not included.)

    Humor-less Description: We’ve hand typed (by means of a 1947 Smith & Corona typewriter) the Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.  It’s typed on paper we have personally aged through our own multi-staged process. The pictures are taken without glass in the frame so you can pick up on the detail, but be assured glass is included.

    Processing Time & Shipping
    • Free Shipping: Our products are handmade to order and will ship out in 3 business days. If you need it sooner, please select upgraded shipping at checkout.
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    • Returns: Don’t like it? Send it back in 30 days for a full refund! (See the bottom of the page for a link to our full refund policy.)


    Frame Styles
    • Unframed: Hand-typed aged poem mounted on backing board in a protective plastic sleeve. (Shipped in a sturdy-mailer)
    • 8.5 x 11 Frame: Hand-typed aged poem in barnwood frames as seen in the majority of the photos.
    • 11 x 14 Floating Frame: Hand-typed aged poem mounted in between two sheets of glass and framed in barnwood.
      Poem Text
      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.”
          “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 haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
      Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
                  Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
          “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
      By that Heaven that bends above us—by 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 Night’s 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 demon’s that is dreaming,
          And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
      And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                  Shall be lifted—nevermore!
      Additional Information

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