Guest
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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “'Tis some visitor,“ I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door - “Only this and nothing more.“ “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.“ 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 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! - Edgar Allan Poe
