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XII.

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."

XIII.

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!

XIV.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

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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.”

XV.

"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."

66

XVI.

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."

XVII.

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

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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."

XVIII.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is

sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber

And his

door;

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 ! *

* There is a curious little paper on the genesis of this poem, by PoE, in one of his essays, "The Philosophy of Composition." Works, vol. ii. p. 259.-ED.

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Ан, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for

ever!

Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or

never more!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore !

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