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The Raven By Gaige Lesselyong
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.
He is sad because he has lost what meant the most to him Lenore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
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