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(Amy) The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. 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. In 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 named 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. And treating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This is it. And nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating than 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 open 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 in 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 there at is and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment in this mystery explore. Tis the wind and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter. When with many a flirt and flutter in their stepped estately 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 palace. Just above my chamber door, perched and sat in 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 marvel this ungainly foul 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 than he uttered. Not a feather than 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 bosoms core. This and more I sat divining with my head at ease, reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 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 in nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, O 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. And chanted 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 Aiden it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore. Quoth the raven, Nevermore be that word. Our sign of parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked up, starting. Get thee back into the tempest in 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 lamplight 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.