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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!

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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed

from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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."

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"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."

XVII.

"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! *

* 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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Ah, 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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