Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
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.
“thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
He is reading a book from hes book case. The book is sad and then he thought of Lenore who died.
¨Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping,......¨