The Raven (illustrated by Gustave Doré)

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore

The secret of a poem, no less than a jest's prosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it

The secret of a poem, no less than a jest's prosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it

vast prison through which he ran, hither and thither, with the feverish agitation of a being created to breathe in a purer world

is its only stock and store

or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore

hath lent thee

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

"Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

"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, 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."