Jan got me to thinking about my favorite. This is the one that got me started so yall can all blame William Cullen Bryant Thanatopsis it too long to post all but my favorite verse is: So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
The Road Not Taken (1916) by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
I have so many! I think I'll go with "Ode: Intimations on Innocence" by Wordsworth - THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. These are only the first two stanzas, the best part of the poem - it goes on to ramble about a happy shepherd boy, but I never cared for that portion of it. These first two I memorized. It was a tossup between this, Yeats "When You are Old and Grey" and Tennyson's "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal".
Yipe, I have so many favorites! But last time I recited Jabberwocky the nurse was convinced that my brain damage was far too extensive, and I obviously had lost the ability to speak. So here's one from memory inspired by the weather: There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on hte marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Ok, it's a really long poem but you can google it if you want to read the rest! The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service
My favourite is Tam O'shanter by Robert Burns. It's a looooooong one but I love every word of it!!! :-D Tam O'Shanter When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roarin fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:-Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride,- That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,- A better never lifted leg,- Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane: And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze: Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast: A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.- Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape-- Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft- The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!- Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock. I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore. For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig: There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle- Ae spring brought aff her master hale But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear.
Eileen, I'm so glad you didn't try to "straighten out" his poem, it drives me nuts when someone "quotes" Burns and changes the language! Like "The Best Laid Plans O' Mice and Men Gang Aft Aglay." NOT "go oft' awry"! Ok, brief puff of literary snobbishness rearing it's ugly face, lol!
Critterpainter, I love that poem. When I was in the 7th grade our Language Arts teacher would read that to us on the last day of school before holidays, on the day report cards came out and any day we had spare time after tests, etc. We all loved it.
I took myself down to the Tally Ho Tavern, To buy me a bottle of beer. And I sat me down by a tender young maiden, Who's eyes were as dark as her hair. And as I was searching from bottle to bottle, For something un-foolish to say. That silver tongued devil just slipped from the shadows, And smilingly stole her away. I said: "Hey, little girl, don't you know he's the devil. "He's everything that I ain't. "Hiding intentions of evil, "Under the smile of a saint. "All he's good for is getting in trouble, "And shiftin' his share of the blame. "And some people swear he's my double: "And some even say we're the same. "But the silver-tongued devil's got nothing to lose, "I'll only live 'til I die. "We take our own chances and pay our own dues, "The silver tongued devil and I." Like all the fair maidens who've laid down beside him, She knew in her heart that he'd lied. Nothin' that I could have said could have saved her, No matter how hard that she tried. 'Cos she'll offer her charms to the darkness and danger, Of somethin' that she's never known. And open her arms at the smile of a stranger, Who'll love her and leave her alone. And you know, he's the devil. He's everything that I ain't. Hiding intentions of evil, Under the smile of a saint. All he's good for is getting in trouble, And shiftin' his share of the blame. And some people swear he's my double: And some even say we're the same. But the silver-tongued devil's got nothing to lose, I'll only live 'til I die. We take our own chances and pay our own dues, Ah ha ha ha. The silver tongued devil and I. Kris Kristofferson
I agree it would be pure sacrilege to 'straighten' out a Burns poem Mary and it really angers me when people 'translate' it into English!!! :-x Jan your poem is great - I really enjoyed reading it!!!!
Yes, I too have many different favorites, depending on my mood. My longest held "favorite" goes way back, I used to ask my mom to read it to me (over and over again) when I was little. Probably drove her crazy, but I knew it word for word before I ever learned to read. The Duel ~~ by Eugene Field ~~ The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; 'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I wasn't there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) The gingham dog went " Bow-wow-wow!" And the calico cat replied "Me-ow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place Up with it hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed,"Oh dear! What shall we do!" But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw- And oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don't fancy I exaggerate! I got my news from the Chinese plate!) Next morning where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole the pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock, it told me so, And that is how I came to know.)
I also love "The Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Coleridge. And the Owl and the Pussycat out in a peagreen boat. Oh, and the Walrus and the Carpenter. Richard, notice how Eugene Field uses the same meter and rhyme scheme in Calico cat as he does in the Little Tin Soldier.
I love anything by Edgar Allen Poe. I have many other favorites, including this one: KENTUCKY BELLE by Constance Fenimore Woolson (1840-1894) Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-- Gone to the country town, sir, to sell our first load of hay. We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen. Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle; How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell-- Came from the Bluegrass country; my father gave her to me When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee. Conrad lived in Ohio--a German he is, you know-- The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row; The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee. O, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that is never still! But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky-- Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye! From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon, Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon; Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn, Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn. When I fell sick with pining we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the cornlands out to this river shore-- The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee. I was at work that morning. Someone came riding like mad Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad. Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, "Morgan's men are coming, Frau, they're galloping on this way. "I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find; Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen." The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door-- The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone; Near, near Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on! Sudden I picked up baby and ran to the pasture bar: "Kentuck!" I called; "Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far! I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight. As I ran back to the log house at once there came a sound-- The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground, Coming into the turnpike out from the White-Woman Glen-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men. As near they drew and nearer my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the doorway, with baby on my arm. They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along; Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band six hundred strong. Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the west, And for the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest. On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance; And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein. Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water and glanced around the place; I gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see, Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes, and he'd sailed on the Tennessee. Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun! The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South! O, pluck was he to the backbone and clear grit through and through; Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do; The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee. But, when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim blue eyes and quivers around his mouth. "Do you know the Bluegrass country?" he wistful began to say, Then swayed like a willow sapling and fainted dead away. I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; I fed him and coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; And, when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on. "O, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me! O, what will Morgan say?" But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before. And on, on came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry-- And fast they rode, and black they looked galloping rapidly; They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight. And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days, For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways; Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, Through river valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best. A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last. They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword. Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still; When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- But I stole down to that gully and brought up Kentucky Belle. I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty, gentle lass-- But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Bluegrass; A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad. I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how; The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle! When Conrad came home in the evening the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why-- But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, And a thin old horse with a drooping head stood in Kentucky's stall. Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee; But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass-- A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Bluegrass. The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur; Ah! we've had many horses, but never a horse like her!
Jan Ilove the Tin Soldier and this one Sharon has loved Kentucky Belle since we met I tried to get her to say For Sharon by me but no luck. Poets mostly have to be dead before being acknowledge any way LOL. My DD said in my case I would just be dead{Heavy Sigh}
I like to read "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe to hubby on a dark winter night. Edgar Allan Poe The Raven [First published in 1845] Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 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 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 named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor 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 chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that 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 darkness 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 thereat 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 least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 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 nightly 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; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his 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 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 will he 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 dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and 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 lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the 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-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind 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 this 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, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the 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 form from off 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! Spooky stuff.
