American Lit. I
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore...
To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea...
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before!
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
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