Пользовательского поиска
|
Only this and
nothing more”.
Ah, distinctly
I remember it was in the bleak December;
And 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
name Lenore
—
Nameless here
for evermore.
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
visiter entreating entrance at my
chamber door
—
Some late
visiter entreating entrance at my
chamber door;
—
This it is and
nothing more”.
Presently my
soul grew stronger; hesitating
then 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 head you” — here
I opened wide
the door; —
Darkness there
and nothing more.
Deep into that
darkness peering, long I stood
there
wondering, fearing,