The Night Mail and Other Poems

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This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

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To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

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This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

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On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

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But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,

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She shall press, ah, nevermore!

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Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

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Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

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"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee

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Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:

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Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

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Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

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"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

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Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

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Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -