“And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore!”

“And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!”

“And my Black bird, still not quitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn that pallid bust -- still flitting through my dolorous domain;But it cannot stop from gazing for it truly finds amazingThat, by artful paraphrasing, I such rhyming can sustain--Notwithstanding my lost symbol I such rhyming still sustain--Though I shan't try it again!”

“Oh, lady bright! can it be right-The window open to the night?The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop -The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully - so fearfully -Above the closed and fringéd lid'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,That, o'er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?”

“The End of the Raven"On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slantingI awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.'Raven's very tasty,' thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor.'There is nothing I like more.'[...]Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he utteredIn a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -- 'Nevermore.'While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore --Only this and not much more.”

“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.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.”