THE TIDES RISES, THE TIDES FALLS

                                     The tide rises, the tide falls,

                                     The twillight darkens, the curlew calls;

                                     Along the sea-sands damp and brown 

                                     The traveller hastens toward the town,

                                        And the tide rises, the tide falls.

                                     Darkness settles on the roofs and walls,

                                     But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

                                     The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

                                     Efface the footprints in the sands

                                         And the tide rises, the tide falls.

                                     The morning breaks; the steads in their stalls]

                                     Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

                                     The day returns, but nevermore               

                                     Returns the traveller to the shore,

                                          And the tide rises, the tide falls.

                   

ATHELETS BY GRACE GAVALIERI(1937-)

                                      The first time I saw my American poems translated

                                       I just stopped and studied

                                       the hieroglyphics on the page,

                                       tiny scribbles of black ink

                                       saying twice

                                       what was said before.

                                       Then I knew
                                       I would not leave this world
                                       without loving some of it......
                                       nothing reduced to a single truth........
                                       all of one blood,
                                       our words, music and lives coming together.  
                                       It was not that the stars had fallen down-

                                       It was more that we didn't need

                                       the lamp which had gone out.

                                       How separate we are in the dark

                                       after the poem is gone.

PIED BEAUTY BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS(1844-1889)

                            Glory to be God for dappled things-

                               For skies of couple colors as a brinded cow;

                                  For rose moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

                            Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

                               Landscape plotted and pieced- fold, fallow, and plough;

                                  And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

                            All things counter, original, spare and strange;

                                Whatever it fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

                                    With swift, slow; sweet, sour, adazzle, dim;

                            He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                                                                         Praise him.

GOD'S GRANDEUR BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS(1844-1889)

                                   The world is charged with the grandeur of god

                                           It will flame out like shining from the shook foil;

                                           It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil,

                                    Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? 

                                    Generations have trod , have trod, have trod

                                           And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

                                           And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

                                     Is bare now, nor can foot fell, being shod.

                                    And for all this, nature is never spent;

                                           There lives a dearest freshness deep down things;

                                    And though the last lights off the black West went

                                           Oh morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-

                                    Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
                                           World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings

THE NEW COLOSSUS BY EMMA LAZARUS(1849-1887)

                                  Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, 

                                  With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

                                  Here at our sea-washed, sunset gets shall stand

                                  A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

                                  Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

                                  Mother of Exiles. From her beacon- hand

                                  Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

                                  The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

                                  "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

                                  With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor

                                  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

                                   The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

                                   Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
                                   I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

712 BY EMILSON DICKINSON(1830-1886)

                                            Because I could not stop for the Death -

                                            He kindly stopped for me -

                                            The Carriage held but just Ourselves

                                            And Immortality.

                                            We slowly drove- He knew no haste

                                            And I had put away

                                            My labor and my leisure too  

                                            For his Civility.

                                            We passed the School, where the children strove

                                            At Recess- in the Ring-

                                            We passed the Fields  of Gazing Grain-

                                            We passed the Setting Sun-

                                            Or rather - he passed us -

                                            The Dews drew quivering & chill-

                                             For only Gossamer, my Gown -

                                             My tippet - only Tulle-

                                             We paused before House that seemed

                                             A Swelling of the Ground-

                                             The  Roof was scarcely visible-

                                             The Cornice- in the Ground-

                                              Since then- 'tis Centuries- and yet  

                                              Feels shorter than the Day-

                                              I first surmised the Horses' Heads- 

                                             Were towards Eternity-
                                                
                                               
                 
                                             

348 BY EMILY DICKINSON(1830-1886)

                                               I dreaded that first Robbin, so,
                                               But He is a mastered, now,
                                               I'm some accustomed to Him grown,
                                               He hurts a little, though-


                                               I thought if I could only live
                                               Till the first Shout got by-
                                               Not all Pianos in the Woods
                                               Had power to mangle me-


                                               I dared not meet Daffodils-
                                               For fear their Yellow Gown
                                               Would pierce me with a fashion
                                               So foreign to my own-


                                               I wished the Grass would hurry-
                                               So- when 'twas time to see-
                                               He'd be too tall, the tallest one 
                                               Could stretch- to look at me-


                                               I could not bear the Bees should come,
                                               I wished they'd stay away
                                               In those dim countries where they go,
                                               What would had they, for me?


                                               They're here, though; not a creature failed-
                                               No Bloosom stayed away
                                               In gentle deference to me -
                                               The Queen of Calvary


                                                Each one salutes me, as he goes,
                                                And I, my childish Plumes,
                                                Lift, in bereaved acknowledgement
                                                Of their unthinking Drums -
                         

STARS BY EMILY BRONTE (1818-1848)

                                                  Ah!, why, because the dazzling sun
                                                  Restore our earth to joy
                                                  Have you, departed, everyone
                                                  And left a sesert sky?


                                                  All though the night, your glorious eyes
                                                  Were gazing down in mine,
                                                  And with a full heart's thankful sighs
                                                  I blessed that watch divine!


                                                  I was at peace, drank your beams
                                                  As they were lift to me
                                                  And revealed in my changeful dreams
                                                  Like petrel on the sea.


                                                  Thought followed thought-star followed star
                                                  Through boundless regions on,
                                                  While one sweet influence, near and far,
                                                  Thrilled through and proved us one.
                               
                                                  Why did morning dawn to break
                                                  So great, so pure a spell,
                                                  And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
                                                  Where your cool radiance fell?
                                                 
                                                  Blood-red he rose, and arrow straight
                                                  His fierce beams struck my brow,
                                                  The soul of Nature sprang elate,
                                                  But mine sank sad and low!


                                                  My lids closed down- yet through the veil
                                                  I saw him blazing still,
                                                  And steep in gold the misty dale
                                                  And flash upon the hill.


                                                  I turned me to the pillow then
                                                  To call back Night, and see
                                                  Your worlds of solemn light, again
                                                  Throb with my heart and me!


                                                  It would not do- the pillowed grow
                                                  And glowed both roof and floor,
                                                  And birds sang loudly in the wood,
                                                  And fresh winds shook the door.


                                                  The curtains waved, the wakened flies
                                                  Were murmuring round my room,
                                                  Imprisoned there, till I should rise
                                                  And give them leave to roam.


                                                  O Stars and dreams and Gentle Night;
                                                  O Night and Stars return!
                                                  And hide me from the hostile light
                                                  That does not warm but burn-


                                                  That drains the blood of suffering men;
                                                  Drinks tears, instead of dew:
                                                  Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
                                                  And only awake with you!



                                             



                                               

MINIVER CHEEVY BY EDWIN ARLINGTON(1869-1935)

                                      Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
                                           Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
                                      He wept that he was ever born,
                                           And he had reasons.

                                      Miniver loved the days of old
                                           When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
                                      The vision of warrior bold  
                                            Would set him dancing.

                                     
                                       Miniver sighed for what was not,
                                             And dreamed, and rested  from his labors;
                                        He dreamed  of Thebes and Camelot,
                                             And Priam's neighbors.

                                        Miniver mourned the ripe renown 
                                             That made so many a name so fragment;
                                         He mourned Romance, now on the town,
                                             And Art, a vagrant.

                                         Miniver loved the Medici,
                                              Albeit he had never seen one;
                                         He would have have sinned incessantly
                                              Could he have been one.

                                         Miniver cursed the commonplace
                                              And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
                                         Hi missed the medieval grace
                                              Of iron clothing.

                                         Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
                                              But sore annoyed was he without it,
                                         Miniver thought, and thought, and thought
                                              And thought about it.
                                         
                                         Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
                                              Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
                                         Miniver Coughed, and called it fate,
                                              And kept on drinking.
  

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT BY EDWARD LEAR (1812-1888)

                                            The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
                                               In a beautiful pea-green boat,
                                            They took some honey, and plenty of money
                                               Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
                                            The Owl looked up to the stars above, 
                                               and sang to a small guitar,
                                            "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
                                             What a beautiful pussy you are,
                                                           You are,
                                                           You are!
                                             What a beautiful pussy you are!"


                                             Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl"
                                                 How charmingly sweet you sing!
                                             O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
                                                 But what shall I do for a ring?"
                                             They sailed away, for a year and a day,
                                                 To the land where the Bong-tree grows
                                              And there in a wood a Piggy wood stood 
                                              With a ring at the end of the nose,
                                                             His nose,
                                                             His nose,
                                              With a ring at the end of the nose.


                                              Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
                                                  Your ring?" Said the Piggy, I will."
                                              So they took it away, and were married next day  
                                                  By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
                                              They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
                                                 Which they ate with a runcible  spoon
                                              And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
                                                 They danced by the light of the moon,
                                                             The moon,
                                                             The moon,
                                               They danced by the light of the moon.
                                                 

                                           
                                               
         

MY GHOST STORY

   One night, a young boy by the name of Xavier dragged his friends to the biggest haunted house in town. It was the opening night, but they noticed that it was nearly empty. They walked up to the front door, getting a sudden rush of cold air, so cold it could pierce their skin.

 “Why is it so cold?” Asked his friend Seth.

“Dunno, maybe it’s the ghost following us!” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

   As they go to the door, another cold rush of air flew into them, followed by a laugh. They couldn’t help but laugh. Thinking it was one of their tricks.

“ It’s okay, we’re not scared.” yelled Xavier, in between fits of laughter.

They walked in and Xavier felt a sudden pain inside his chest. A pain he had never felt before. A pain so excruciating it hurt of move.

   “Help!! HELP ME!” he yelped, puffing for air and crashing to the ground. He looked around, eyeing everyone to get help, but then it stopped, he could breath again. He wasn’t being attacked anymore.

  On the way home, Xavier walked ahead of everyone else. Along the street, they rustled through leaves and rubbish.

“Maybe it was an asthma attack...” exclaimed his friend Robbie.

Xavier over heard the conversation and decided to join in.

   “It wasn’t an asthma attack.” Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, shuffling his feet and feeling around for the charm his Mother had given him just the day before.

   As soon as he got home, he couldn’t be bothered doing anything else, so he went to sleep and dreamt a terrible dream. Something grabbing at him, something dark, something that would haunt him forever. A ghost.

    He woke up in horrible fright. The attack had started again. He cried out in pain until something stopped him, something cold and dark reached out and grabbed him at his neck. Xavier tried to kick at it, but there was nothing there to kick at. Nothing, just the darkness of his room. 

   His attack stopped. He stumbled to to the light and flicked it on and once again, he felt a cold wind blow in his face. Xavier checked under the bed and in the wardrobe for someone, but no one was there.

  Every night the same thing happened, the attacks the cold air, but every night it was somewhat different. Cold hands, gloves, lights but usually the cold air.

He didn’t know how to stop it, until one day Xavier moved away.

   It began again. The pain. The nightmares, they began getting bigger and longer. He started to become worried, but all he could do was deal with it and scream.

   Xavier could hear the footsteps on the staircase, the door opening, and once again, the pain started. It felt like the thing was trying to control him, that all the life had been sucked out of him, when one day, it all stopped. He waited for the pain, but it never came.

It was all over.

FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE, FROM THE FIRST BOOKE BY(ca.1552-1599)

                 Contayning
                 The legend of the
                  Knight of the Red Crosse
                  or
                  Of Holinesse


                 1.
                 
                 Lo I man, whose Muse whilome did maske
                      As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weed,
                      Am now enfrost a far unfitter taske,
                      For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
                     And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
                     Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
                     Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds
                     To blazon broad emongst her her learned throng:
                Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize my song.


                2.


                Help then, O holy Virgin chiefe of mine ,
                     Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will,
                      Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
                     The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
                     Of Faerie knights and fairest Tenaquill,
                     Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
                     Sought through the world, and suffered so much hill,
                     That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
                O helpe thou my weake wit, sharpen my dull tong.


                 3.
               
                 And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove
                     Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
                     At the good knight so cunningly didst rove,
                     That glorious fire if kindled in his hart,
                     Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
                     And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
                     Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart
                     In loves and jollities arrayd,
                After his murdrous spoile and bloudy rage allayd.


                4.
           
                And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright,
                       Mirror of grace and Majestie divine,
                       Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
                       Like Phoebus lampe throughout  the world dothe shine ,
                       Shed thy faire beames  into feeble eyne,
                       And raise my thought to humble and to vile,
                       To thinke of that true glorious type is thine,
                       The argument of mine afflicted stile:
                The which to heare, vouchsafe, o dearest dred a-while.
     
               
 
                 
                 
               
                    
                      

FROM AMORETTI: SONNET 67 BY EDMUND SPENSER (ca. 1552-1599)

                                               Like as a huntsman after a weary chase
                                               Seeing the game from him escap'd away
                                             Sits down to rest him in some shady place
                                             With panting hounds  beguiled of their prey:
                                                So after long pursuit and vain assay,
                                            When I all weary  had the chase forsook,
                                            The gentle deer return'd the self same way,
                                            Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
                                               There she beholding me with milder look,
                                             Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide:
                                             Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
                                             And with her own goodwill her firmly tied 
                                           Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild,
                                             So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd.

MY EXTRA ORDINARY LIFE

My names Charlotte Tubron and this is my extraordinary life as a 14 year old girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes.

     My life started on the 17th of December in the year of 1997. That was the year my Grandfather passed away. I didn’t get to meet him. A few years later, I was 3. Everything changed then when my whole family, Mum, Dad, everyone and everything was burnt down in the house fire, started by a group of arsonist’s. I was on the outside. And from then on, it was never the same. My whole life changed. I got nightmares at the age of 3 and a half. At 4, I got day mares as well. My Grandmother suggested counciling, but it wasn’t necessary. It was never going to stop. 

       At 5, I started school. It didn’t help. I got day and nightmares. I re-lived the experience. One day, I started drawing my imagination on paper. It was like life, and I loved it. My Gran got me private lessons, but I hated it, I wanted to draw what I wanted, not what someone else wanted me to draw. At 6, I started counciling. It was horrible. I wanted to run away and cry, forever. But I couldn’t. They told me to write. So, I wrote. I wrote everything. About my parents, my school, my Gran, and it hang there. So my hobby was to write and draw. What else? Have night and day mares?

       At the age of 7, I started having random epilepsy fits. I fell to the ground and all the other kids did was laugh at me. It happened nearly everyday and if I was lucky enough, it happened twice a day some days. It was horrid. I went to the hospital and they hadn’t seen anything like it. I wasn’t normal, I was strange, like a martian on earth. Like mixing ballet with soccer. I just wasn’t right. At 8, my Gran pulled me out of school. I stayed home. But I was bored. So I ran away, everyday.


       At 9, my life sucked even more. I made a friend , but she left. It didn’t last. 10, I nearly died. my Gran was nearly going to put me up for adoption, but I changed her mind. I didn’t give her much trouble anyway.

      When I was 10, it was all the same. Nothing different. 11. I went back to school, but again it didn’t help. It just dragged the days to make them longer.

      At 12, I started counciling again. My class kept laughing at me, but the fits started calming down a lot. I sat in my tree all day and watched all the little birds fly by. It helped to calm me. I helped me control my breathing. On my 13th birthday, my Gran got me a whole room full of artist equipment. Paints, books, pencils. It was all I needed. 

     At 14, my life started getting worse again. I started getting the fits again, I felt like i wanted to die and i continued getting day and nightmares. It was uncontrollable. It happened. I couldn’t help it. Thats when my Gran couldn’t handle it anymore. She passed away in her sleep a few months ago and from then on, I have been alone my whole life.

SETH COMPTON BY EDGAR LEE MASTERS(1868-1950)

                                                 When I died, the circulating library
                                                  Which I built up for Spoon River,
                                        And managed for the good of inquiring minds,
                                             Was sold at auction on the public square,
                                                   as if to destroy the last vestige
                                                   Of my memory and influence.
                                        For those of you who could not see the virtue 
                            of knowing Volney's "Ruins" as well as Butler's "Analogy"
                                             And "Faust" as well as "Evangeline,"
                                             Were really the  power in the village,
                                                    And often you asked me,
                                     "What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?"
                                           I am out of your way now, Spoon River,
                                           Choose your own good and call it good 
                                              For I could never make you see
                                                Who knows not what is evil;
                                              And no one knows what is true
                                                Who knows not what is false.

DOC HILL BY EDGAR LEE MASTERS(1868-1950)

                                                         I went up and down the streets
                                                        Here and there by day and night,
                                  Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.

                                                                Do you know why?
                                                My wife hated me my son went to the dogs.
                                   And I turned to the people and poured  out my love to them.
                         Sweet it was to sweet the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,
                                               And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
                                            But oh, dear god, my soul trembled, scarcely able
                                                   To hold to the railing  of the new life
                                              When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree
                                                                    At the grave,
                                                         Hiding herself, and her grief!

THE RAVEN BY EDGAR ELLAN POE

                                 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
                                 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lure-
                                 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
                                 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door-
                                 "Tis some visitor, "I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door-
                                                                                             Only this and nothing more"

                                  Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the black December;
                                  And  each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon a 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 everyone.

                                  And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
                                  Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
                                  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
                                  "Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door-
                                  Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door-
                                                                                                This it is and nothing more.

                                 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
                                 "Sir," said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
                                 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
                                 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chambered door-
                                 That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-
                                                                                                 Darkness there and nothing more.

                                 Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
                                 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
                                 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
                                 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore?"
                                 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore!"
                                                                                                  Merely this and nothing more.

                                  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning.
                                  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
                                  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
                                  Let me see, then, what threat is, and this mystery explore-
                                  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
                                                                                                   "Tis the wind and nothing more!"

                                  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;
                                  Not the last obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
                                  But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above chamber door-
                                  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my cahmber door-
                                                                                                    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

                                  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
                                  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
                                  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, "I said, "art sure no craven,
                                  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nighty shore-
                                  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                                                                                                     Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

                                   Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly
                                   Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
                                   Roe we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
                                   Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-
                                   Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above hid chamber door,
                                                                                                    With such name as "Nevermore."

                                   But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
                                   That one word, as if his soul in that one word he outpour.
                                   Nothing father 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."

                                   Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
                                   "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
                                   Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
                                   Followed  fast and  followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
                                   Till the the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
                                                                                                    Of  "Never-nevermore."

                                   But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
                                   Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
                                   Then, upon a velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
                                   Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
                                                                                                   Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

                                    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
                                    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
                                    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
                                    On the cushion's velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloated o'er,
                                    But whose velvet violet lining with lamp-light gloating o'er.
                                                                                                  She shall press, ah, nevermore!

                                    Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
                                    Swung by seraphim whose foot-balls tinkled on the tufted floor.
                                    "Wretch," I cried, thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
                                    Respite-respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore;
                                    Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                                                                                  Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

                                    "Prophet!" said I, thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-
                                    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
                                    Desolate yet all undaunted, on his desert land enchanted-
                                    On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
                                    Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me -tell me , I implore!"
                                                                                               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

                                    "Prophet!" said I, thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-
                                    By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
                                    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, if within the distant Aidenn,
                                    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
                                    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                                                                                                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
                                   
                                    "Be the word our sign of parting, bird or friend!" I shrieked, upstarting-
                                    Get thee back into the tempest  and Night's Plutonian shore!
                                    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
                                    Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door !
                                    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy my form from of my door!"
                                                                                               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

                                  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!