" But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke one that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out pour. Nothing farther then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more the muttered, "Other friends have flown before"
The raven sitting by its self. The raven kept repeating the same word over. He flapped his wings and then the narrator spoke.
Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door
From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore