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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”.
Thus 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 with the lamp-light
gloating o’er,
She shall
press, ah, nevermore!
Then,
methought, the air grew denser, perfumed
from an unseen
censer
Swung by
seraphim whose foot-falls 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, oh
quaff this kind nepenthe and forget
this lost
Lenore!”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore”.
“Prophet!”
said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still,
if bird or
devil!
Whether
Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
thee here
ashore,
Desolate yet
all undaunted, on this desert land
enchanted
—
On this home
by Horror haunted — tell me truly,