On a dreary December night, I was filled with terrors that I have never felt before.
Deep into the darkness, I stood fearing, fell whispering an echo of Lenore.
Perched on a bookshelf just beside my chamber door sat the raven. "Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," I said, "what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast."
This I sat in guessing, "Wretch,"cried I, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee respite from thy memories of Lenore!"
"Prophet!" I said, "thing of evil prophet still, if bird or devil! Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore!" And the Raven stays perched on thy bookshelf, waiting, watching.