THE RAVEN By Edgar Allen Poe
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the Ravens By Edgar Allan Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of For Gotten Lower while I nodded nearly nothing. Suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door to some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more. I distinctly 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 the nor nameless here forever more and the soup in said on certain rustling of each purple curtain. Thrilled May filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now it is still the beating of my heart. I stood repeating to some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor 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 or 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 heard you here. I opened wide the door darkness there and nothing more.