But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
  Straight I wheel’d 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 which the lamp-light gloated o’er
                         She shall press, ah, never more!

  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, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
                         Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”

  “Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!—­
  Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss’d thee here ashore,
  Desolate, though 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, “Never 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, “Never more.”

  “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, “Never more.”

  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—­never more.

* * * * *