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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,

 

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