One's upon a midnight dreary Waile I pondered weekend and worry Over a quick and curious volume While I nodded almost napping And suddenly there's a taping As if someone was gently raping at the raping at the door. It was the blink December And each dying ember there's a ghost under the floor I wished the morrow vaguely I had sought to borrow from my books sorrow. Sorrow for the lost of Lenore. Lenore. For the Angels named the lost name forever more. Of each purple curtain thrilled me filled me with fantastic terror I've never felt before.
Do that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating. Just a visitor entreaing at my door entreaing entrance at my chamber door is it nothing more presently my soul grew stronger. Hasitaing then no longer. Shirts a tie or madam truly your forgiveness I inplore but the fact is I was napping and so gentily you came rapping and so faintly you came tapping. Tapping at chamber door that I scarce I was sure I heard you. I opened wide the door. Darkness there and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning all my soul within me burning soon again I heard a tapping something louder then before. Let me see then what thereat in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of you're not the obeiance made he not a minute stopped or stayed he but with mein of Lord or lady perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door. perched and sat and nothing more. No craven ghastly and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore tell me tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore quoth the raven. Nevermore and that's all he say. Nevermore everything ok ok. Then methought the air grew denser perfume by someone unseen censer swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the Woodlawnd floor I cried quof oh quof.
Quoth the raven nevermore.
Oh be that why.
Top starting get thee back into the Dorians or leave no black plume as a token of the lie die so I spoken broken of the with the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart. Quoth the raven nevermore. Take the beak from out of my heart and take thy form from my door. Quoth the raven nevermore.
Chased it from all around the room.
Nevermore nevermore NEVERMORE NEVERMORE.
Throughing books all over.
They form from off my door or quote the ravens and the raven. Never fitting still is sitting still. Flitting still is sitting on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door.
The Raven" is a narrative poem by American writer Edgar Allan Poe. First published in January 1845, the poem is often noted for its musicality, stylized language, and supernatural atmosphere. It tells of a distraught lover who is paid a mysterious visit by a talking raven. The lover, often identified as a student,[1][2] is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas, the raven seems to further antagonize the protagonist with its constant repetition of the word "Nevermore". The poem makes use of folk, mythological, religious, and classical references.
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I saw the crow the crow above my closet and is staring at my will I woke up. I see it I see the crow.
