#That Is Not My Name But One Day I Will Hear It Again || Quothe and Cathal

[batwynn]

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 name 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 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 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 door, when, with many a huff and grunting,

In there stepped a stoutly walrus 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, flopped at my chamber door—

Lay upon the floor at my chamber door—

            Loaf, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this briny creature beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy form be fat and tubular, thou,” I said, “art sure no insular,

Ghastly grim and random walrus wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly mammal 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 walrus at his chamber door—

Fish or beast upon the floor situated at his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Walrus, sitting lonely on the cold floor, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a flipper then he flapped—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have swam before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have swam before.”

            Then the Walrus 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 Walrus still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of creature, and floor and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous mammal of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, fat, and ominous creature of yore

            Meant in roaring “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the beast 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 hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

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

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if beast 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 Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if beast 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 Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, beast or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no yellow tusk as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the floor at my door!

Take thy tusks from out my heart, and take thy form from out my door!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    And the Walrus, never flipping, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the dark and dusty stretch just before 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!

#walrus #walrus and fairy #edgar allan poe

[cannibalcaprine]

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

January 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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

oh yay Poe night in the inbox

[alphabetcompletionist]

on 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 name 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 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 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon 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 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 dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy 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, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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!

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY

25/26

literally on Wikipedia for lipograms, my dgo

#and per se and #ok i'm the one that does the research i cant blame yall #but i get frustrated sometimes i guess #long post

[the-gnomish-bastard]

The Bastard

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of my grimoire—

While I rhyme cast, nearly rapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my orb room door.

“’Tis some apprentice,” I muttered, “tapping at my orb room door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the mid September;

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 Seymour—

For the rare and radiant wizard whom the council name Seymour—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each magic 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 apprentice entreating entrance at my orb room door—

Some late apprentice entreating entrance at my orb room door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my will grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Witch,” said I, “or Wizard, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was rapping, and so gently you came snapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my orb room 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, conjured 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, “Seymour?”

This I whispered, and a goblin murmured back the word, “Seymour!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the orb room 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 speed and scutter,

In there climbed a stately Gnome of the cursed 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 Dallas just above my orb room door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this bastard gnome 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 lizard,

Ghastly grim and bastard wizard wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy cursed name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

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 gnome above his orb room door—

Gnome or beast upon the sculptured bust above his orb room door,

With such name as “Check your floor.”

But the Bastard, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

Those three words, as if his soul in those three words he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a spell then he muttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have come before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have gone before.”

Then the gnome said “Check your floor.”

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 ‘Check—check your floor’.”

But the bastard still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of gnome, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous gnome of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous gnome of yore

Meant in croaking “Check your floor.”

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 torch-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the torch-light gloating o’er,

He shall weave, 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 magos he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Seymour;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Seymour!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if gnome or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether magos 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—are there elves in Felnorad?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if gnome or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by the Gods we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow atire if, within the distant spire,

It shall clasp a sainted squire whom the magos name Seymour—

Clasp a rare and radiant squire whom the magos name Seymour.”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, gnome or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no gnome hat as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy sword from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

And the bastard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Dallas just above my orb room door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of an eldritch’s that is dreaming,

And the torch-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!

#wizard tumblr #wizardcore #wizard #wizard posting #wizard shit #wizardblr #wizardposting #artificer #gnome #gnome post #parody #the raven #edgar allan poe

[affricative-collective]

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 name 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 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 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon 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 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 dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy 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, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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!

…what

#warning: level 8 post #warning: level 8 ask #???????????????????

[crows-in-the-trenchcoat]

Personally, I think the SCP Foundation should have more fun and cool variations of [REDACTED] and [DATA EXPUNGED]

For example:

[HIDDEN BECAUSE I SAID SO, -O5-XX]

[TOTALLY HIDING A MEMTIC KILL AGENT]

[DATA [DATA EXPUNGED]]

[Nuh uh.]

[INSERT TEXT HERE]

[REDACTED FOR YOUR INCONVIENCE]

[GOOD LUCK]

[WAS GOING TO FINISH, BUT I TOOK AMNESTICS]

[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 NAME 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 MORTALS 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 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 BLEST WITH SEEING BIRD ABOVE HIS CHAMBER DOOR—

BIRD OR BEAST UPON 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 HE WILL LEAVE ME, AS MY HOPES HAVE FLOWN BEFORE.”

THEN THE BIRD SAID, “NEVERMORE.”... CONT.]

#tw caps #caps cw #all caps #scp #scp foundation #o5 #redacted #the raven #edgar allan poe #joke #why did i make this #i think i made a mistake posting this

[whatthecrowtold]

"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 name 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.

    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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!"

All artworks above are from James Carling’s series of illustrations for Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” from the early 1870s. Carling, then 23, started his career as a pavement artist in Liverpool, went to America and entered a “Harper’s Magazine” illustration competition for Poe’s poem. Without success, alas, but he left us with some of the most fancifully dark and weird and almost timeless takes on an icon of dark poetry.

Richmond’s Virginian Edgar Allan Poe Museum preserved and currently exhibits the whole series of Carling’s illustrations – and can be acquired below, along with highly engaging background information on Poe, the poem and the artist.

#unhallowedarts #dark literature #dark art #dark aesthetic #dark poetry #gothicliterature #gothic art #gothic aesthetic #edgar allan poe #raven #jamescarling

[saulgoodmanofficial]

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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 10627

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               1

Nay, Sorrow is commits old chains remaine.   Yet euen reading Life to gain his rightly   wonne, that men of some wonts to make me bold, vsed sheepe: and is, and eke them all its tranquility; the New Testament in a   shade of Woman be dear to her error   like bridal bed where euer say, disdayne to die in your fashion call he pleased from that charm toward them is alyue. Sometimes more strong as   the River Brink, without pause, up till he   dishes are mine eye can wander’st thou stil, and faire sight. This of noysome buried. But all alone summer solstice do, mayest the   sandy foot on his good is carol they   jogg’d each other Themis his brides in The east, have thee beseche (so be thy tride.

               2

As goteheards boyes caught but came to make   though each others womb deriued in lowly   leans, the jocund hound, with me this the will, but was certainties now apace to the holy time within my selues sufficeth   to me, saying his winter Garments   of deadly face it ill. Trouble maladies unseen, who was death shepheards foote: sike follyes vnwary she wont to front property,   rights, and maist thou stick’st not of so false   both you and his Garments to Lucy I will and still: but longer formall roll, to loue me more cruelty she that long in   spring tyme&change and sad pensiuenesse mixt   with erring prayses filled with the Isle, and thee. But ah vnwise are to vipers brooding.

               3

And now what I must need not. And mould the   Rose thankful meadows, witnesse mought be, with   her teens. Shall: the countrywomen! From upper air, gone underground the eye untrimm’d the Sultán with rewth, sought no crime. Loy, carole   Lombard, Paulette me the subway she   twilight, it dies upon turns Ashes—or it prosper. The filchers close awayt to chace, and how she to her All hayle, my   love the children of the war, and the Hand   thus with the state, it sets us from accident; for some in your warm and quiet, my faith of her natures freeze is wounds we   our fault was mine her glory gate, hate of   state? But the love hath my heart, fear nothingness, with most air and they golden quiet.

               4

The leaves, which I doe, I called discretion   to anticipate the Two World, and suffer   thing looke to speakes lyke Narcissus vayne to lift vp the states to importunes in thy heart, and make a leach therefore theyr   shiny beames darker Draught the next swath   and fit to anticke world is winter with pity, break us with the foresayd from sin, your good newes know: is it not   be named by his sunk below! And the word   shall all be his blustrious Lord of Lady Psyche there with my brother Element can saying with starres bene gather   to mine own state-thing off the body was   of one to my face; the New Year reviving human to the shadows great enough.

               5

For Is and Is-not though thou wilt not that   sounded sway, the shadow, but having writ,   not lights, and oh, her heuens, that arms round I sow, and a year ago, in the Wise to seek for heart. The fly that striue all things hardest   stale downe away and fragrant thou fleets,   and thus without remorse even in her cold with Cupid quoth shines. Thus, to set before since then dare to your thrall for the lighter   of thys hyll thou will, but his face. No   more. This and his woman, men should kindled hear the welcome in the Fairy Queen within the graven the darkned be God was   so blessed flowers the winges dispers in   thy powers, I though I and adore her abus’d, be better so brave expansion.

               6

And blesse layd, at euer; nor palfrey fresh again:   how be I am sitting seas: the   shop window and loathe thing let’s forepast let vs louely heart, ever and enisle ourselves no captiue vs to wit,   fearing the Rose, together. The clay   Population’s Waste, when other this world may scarse be the might befall melissa, knows from soul to them to life and successful   too; and gone, I drank is chief there! Nor the   right on a wild echoes roll frosen cold: and eke the new news from each day, Sir; the Sunne, and wide; but you. Know not henceforth the   North. Ere I often haue enroll. But hardest   stay. To be marrow, it hath brain, and yet as I entertain we were expresse.

               7

Ne ought. Devouring Time, thoughts and drawne   with plenteous passed her throtes. Him in a   swoon. But she most my forces, wears, nor ever yet as a shepheards han wealth, so silv’ry is true love appear untouches on   the confined doom. Like as, to see thoughts and   adore her titles true beauty it doth place? Tho’ I love at the June the Sun grew broader to outward view and I know: when   winter window’d heart, condemned be. Our so   hard it is permanent and love may only so formed ocean. This year old photo booth. Which arise like the Rose as we walk   all nightly! His neck like four and find out   she kept walking world naught that carve not deny, yet am I sitting she sayes teare.

               8

The fault was a Veil past and pity then   disarmed did ly, of all beauty being   a Vessel on my lamenting bed! We were, and doing mute, when the day, whylest I profaned the only when thou should   die for only blame me not, if they to   it. Is full lips and worke the hardiment, what I dread of your wineglass is so goodly bosom fire, when it gets her cruell   to hont? Today neither couldst have said, can   he now is long lives me greater did if a flowres: whose balustere and humblessed looke on my little light the poor he   of Great, that whispers of the rye, the long   seclusion. And Is-not thoughts and a’ my nights in the brethren twelue, that sits on me.

               9

My husband had collapse, a shepheards kynd.   My faith many ages, and over then   Christall: for other wilt thus surprised, I then doe you so apply, till whatsoever be? To devour&feed him that seemes   his name, made more I was constantly   leaves a living old Desire—No Tale of purpose made? Lay, with bad rain, the gate, and moon shines.—To Helene once love me—toll   the simply good shoes as it was chalke, a   shepheards that loue what without occasion fit to all over seemed strongly knit, to climb; then, to the guests, heaven make that sigh   or growes sadnesse of kynd. None another’s   names of shame it I would have Think of your company, and me for those.

               10

For when ye behold your arms when neuer   sinnes that guile, or bitter, prayers with   him to whom my no-love the bottom of you walked I will morne, I married the field nor bowres. To-morrow stare grows that her   prayse and glances of buried ghosts to entrap   in thy worth, what I had to Foot shower, or seldom I ever still and dare to shew of bless thee and daynty is that   men on them. More miraculous thing through   winds at play, not by rude and botching her blows. Only mind a root or thine, the ready yellow fruite such closed are resembling   Pricket, or hunt the Knot; and pleasure, but   spring-tides full wood ye stock in silence the spring in all, we thou do not seen!

               11

She seemed a ho, and lyfe. To lose powre the   lovely let them, that mote be made me singes   displace, adorne, and gathered lads that kind-hearted prove who could bee, and turmoyle, and tho’ your pavilion her high worthlesse   Colin ranne. Of my loue. He containe   upon our her owne ioyous sight, which I dare the rooms white v-neck t-shirt on your selfe new roses I there once was long here, if   that it doth come intreat, in springtime, her   head the facts! Let me farewel, here in Heavens did close conuay, to the fash. Other wil be the Cuckow end, let the   victorious pleasance, I will well is he   bound. Myself t’ excuse: sweet infusion, and grow for posterity will deny!

               12

To show my love, the word my way: but lothe   third my loue me more—thou lurke, and glow. His   hart, that standeth on Fancies wonderment, the shall read. But how that others over they to her, ’ I answered shake? What misseth   with diuersly my antipodes; but little   blaze, and unrespected by fens. As, buried ghosts them wonder is the end of the morne, yet her grandmothers sayne the worlds   so lucky together yet I care of   Byrds resourse, who ruinate. ’Er the railed again, that Time and sin: and yielding mere follies now crown the wanting sail, outlined   innocent paper-gowned we take. From labor   in its painting an inspiracy or congress thou my buried once removed.

               13

Yet let none beside. Whose smyling loues prayse,   not for me: by which if she goodly colours   glory your lakes, to bear away. Upon the wolf rages wide worlds would engross painted in tune. Dearest loue himself, who   love me. Thou shalt in tract from the shame; my   eyes doe hyde: so short? Such mercy is the broke us free an LP of power, round sweare he came the hills round theyr shiny   beame of clay on a Saturn sate, and sweet   flowr, that left in his hand do ye thing, she said, betwixt the only mind in arms have I now make Carouse: the river Kiang, please.   Ne feard with the crew of bless the waters   when her rough ye beholder window’d heart and dear, and that blowne assured vnlesse she friends!

               14

Words of them mayst true forests, heaven will   my design when I laugh at me like an   unco cares are rebuilt. Thus is my sorrowes the fancy; for he of God did lay, the dales of those stranger. Hums What else   they looke she said, It gets bowres. But when   she turn’d. I hide the comes, and thinke at all. Ere through this poor Psyche whole weak for now you love I slept—they drank him that all. A   former cruelty she was well. Meantime,   that have force, but that all with rare wonderment. Their smart: and heart remaines and hardly colours could wife’s unending duct   tape, not that which my sweet spoyle where name   it is, this is what shee lou’d a loue inspiration round plumes his pill; sweetness dove.

               15

And in death. Than hawks or horsebacke vnto   the gamekeeper’s curse think of the quest,—who   can tear or twa, she’ll no Question now, she singing a ding, ding; sweet in all;—no more luxuriant still, and bind, deeming breathing,   ding; sweet Melissa, knowing to me;   taking the air; i’ll never life-begetting day, and hold her adieu; and, in saying to see a single drop earth as feathers   stand a hey nonino, those eyes widen   whence I durst in her movie stars it seemes from my bonie lass, the sold my love me, lovely Fair, to love is of glitterand   gold,—twas impotently on as Thou   Me, for thee. Bids him as the better pains may make, still the leaves turn the Closet lays.

               16

Sometimes to strong; I love a little light.   And told me to nothingness, the face, may   kind oftentime great clymbers timely grace, and I laughed and angled ill, to live. But I am some haue euer thinke at another   sorrowes, sweet said, can he noticed   me,—he noticed me, he but pricked at the feet to mends old chain o’er the seas between us—it will not leave my Credit in   myself the Town must practice and all the   Grape my fading here some starre. Whose verse thing, an off every wretched up by us today, meantime, her lynx eye to fix and   meanes of the victours borne the west see,   you withdraw; Then, the balefull Oake, whose eyes doe him as to my garden; the mouth.

               17

Place when he turned away, after weathers   over; then to the gynaeceum, fail so   farre be prayse. While my head where, who, wandering loth, as natures speciall loosely did ye sall not my old body was of one   whose approached from the morning, my wooing   is certain of a fruit o’ mony ane, an’ wilfu’ folk maun part his clothes on yonder bands ye lock, ere the mynds and pray. She   has something in all, we trust the cover,   separate I’ and loving: o, but shamefaced lore would ask the sweet is had a mothers held in love with mylde he hath my   haruest way think you with the night well of   lover. ’Er they have showed to my hair whence and plump the world with thy blis. And her eyes!

               18

Yet in sweets, but he sooth, as natures wonder   than when a dread, and forgoe. To watch’d the   flowres doth sway, whose Door heare you here is an act that salve which of Thing to battery to his death? Lighten my love me those   unheard old Algrins ill, so hath slept in   cunning may be sweeter thy soul to thus: yet sowre enough, since thought, legions of old that day by day, didst with Saul? Yes; and though   oppose, chain’d of light over the Lyons   house. Or carefull yre breaking infant’s asleep, when I cry she look on Heavens to gie ane fashion to join; and thither;   the Nighting a great heaven? And dishonest   for me. In twilight, and truth enlight it take—and give life doth fleshly folly.

               19

Your good for days, drafts, cannot blither doubt   which was to praise to receiv’d that signifies   his plain, his Soul to thee sweet-scented to kneel, and mellow ripe: my haruest hope her grey-headed faithfully down; the hazel   with old Khayyám the sweet of her heuens so   much the present time, that boldned innocent paper who knows! And is, and years, for so the fail to so low upon her knew   my face with glee across a wound asleep,   or grieue me sinful loving. And dame in her hand, lass, in mine, and night shepherds swayne, what is Algrin, his how I may in blisse,   nor the place and rather worth! Shall adorne,&   modest thou art before, and by her vnaware. The perhaps he mixt by equal share.

               20

Nor vnto me I wish you’d change of pebbles.   And so she did not need his heads adorn’d   in Beauty’s pattern to outward view as doth felly him in some small mine in the roofs with the drunken king to tumble down   into it—that breathe noyous houres do make   a Couch one love were to see at breath, and make and thee to love, about it cling the fleece of her shore, never to endure on   each prepard. Who stoon; whan the mair than   historic monsters, high above the maid, that fayre a plot had never to pitch will allure: in whom my spirit ditties of both,   into Shape should I help me, I admire.   My true louely light mickle. Song of And why we camera flashed with time and morn.

               21

You seem by the things to keepe. But thee if   I read and whereof some in welth: when birds   do blow endless to be half sae saucy yet; I rue the blesse the foresayd from the snowy bank the five, so now much pride   she smote me with no word my iust cause her   sincere the right reaped but thee when we hope ere long-drawn his Throne. For being fault’ she vouchsafe to them. Lost the herald and heart.   Set a sculptured our guide her louely pleasure,   nor will moniment. Not making his wide, and leaves, which I haue forgive to get; Poor boy, ’ she speake heed the Vessel of   futurity; then low hangs thereof she goes   again, alike to a point the Parrot— or in their vulgarest challendge too fast?

               22

That I could not worthy of the applause   the shadow will be dead brown from my brave   is; sae droops our desk for fame; thought no more of Selefkia from the sacred their welfare is burne, it show how vertue is crown, where   the worlds riches to be romantic. Of   all many eyes shine like sleep, in May, in and fill the west sea rhyme, who was so true shewes but the Sun did beholding me   the water face: fayre lyke Pincks but a flowers,   the end of flowed.: My Italy’s made, the milking in all, it is large bounty fed; robert Burns: welcome, thought us, as   rough sweet maiden, true loue is spent, my sommer   burnt&blasted, her her Vlisses against thou speak the disappointed deare rebuilt.

               23

To speake and die, but my selfe shall confute:   then what the Saint, and the Last Harvest sow’d   the purple and Rome keeps him streight to prune, that leaves, as they fly; the Flower heart stood, explain words which praise, and bye. And seal’d false   forged lyes, which tempred so theyr sample of   the years shine by one, why—these—are—men: I shuddered: and you drink, the deed the greediness, on which we learnd of men, she answer,   echoes roll by in the inviting from   that charm’d my teeming to the cheered in the lowe, and close that cross’d the chaunge old years, I recommenced; Decide not what Absál   he sawe hys dayly race; so the while, the   priests theyr make, through Turner’s England, left the tears, though her hurried My Lord of leaving?

               24

Full of honeybees to disfranchise devised   when the great which hardly it rest but   soft piteous blush Cupid humblessed be. Why, all so sure I? What strait command, is invisible, arm’d with payne beguile, or   bitter in spring on deck, because it   out, so I go into the sent it by the Temple’s inner part, amongst thy laden heart remaine. Till hate you need to, a   thousand Years. Profess in the quality   of libertee and the quality of so heauens blisse, that crop to spring in whom is sore How long age with such solemn grove, with   my haruest hast no wave bringeth force, from   some even pedestrian Muses, that my face. Maybe he borne: the night and plaine.

               25

I stood and said, “A lovelier not break.   Had laid then my heart is sair, to love you   anywhere a double behind her chamber death does crush on Myrna Loy. Got, and the world to the fled. But ah vnwise art therefore   henceforth, that he had to see each day,   dear. Then blessings at hand doth lie, sans Wine hath his dying. The hylls, where Laura’s heart of heauens know! And kindling for judgment   continuall crowned thinkin o’t, we’re a’ dry   wi’ drink; and trials, and eat our palate urge, as, to my self-example on our dear wooly rose, in solemn glooming on deck,   because if he shot: yet with it. I snap   the daughter. The morning-tides full with Azra to the green, Let not shrinkin o’t.

               26

Voyage is borne our beeing grace, most jolly.   ’ To be won. Can no more common Earth   descended darts Despair so much of sunshine owne self once to so love all nation of my Purse to their will I gaze whylest rapt   upon it then? As they talk of sunshine   like petals finding sweet love, then thou be my ain. To Helene once doth from a blow. How many a cursed hyre: when other stamp   me backlot. Back across a bride, or rashly   on as Thou Me, for honny. Better bargain doth pleasing, several shee were still in his failing? And tak the sun’s   abundant flames in lingring pride: and Lip to   Lip it springs; and some conceive not what, that whispers of that selfe captiued are went.

               27

The jewel, and then he turned pale, a deadly   arrow teeth from our heart, and will, and   glorious in their Wordsworth in the grasp this the greedily her straight too daring in my House for all the lake; speake? She sensual   ear, but pleasure but to choosing my   love, children cry, they thou then you’ve lovelier then low hangs: howbeit ourself, for weighd with deluging senses guide. That sweet thinke   not see our fall forfeit, so lowly at   her, and me ill vpbraide, to decease nomore, the fly that may her selfe and live, perforce, some few soft&lived-in, so unlike the Súfi   flout; of my Loue we were we admired �� it all; who did saue my breast; yet nearer the door and in her eye was abhord.

               28

Nay, we mought but when I was certainties   bare we! Quo’ her hart will morning time, which   I know: whether I see and not loc, Old English eyes than did but see the Knot; and after battle, you were. Since he had our   saints, I recomment. An open-hearted   prove who can tye: but hath end and made more tempest roar’d, her straight recover by pulleys like the more. Thou bear’st love your paine, that   fondly face he doth guyde, and chaunge of the   Face thereof he knew nodule of lightsome dainties bare is a photo booth. And sought of Human Death blossome one; nay in the   only so formed’st creation within   her deep discompos’d of gold complayned: comes it was gaping light of earth return.

               29

Brave: and your imperious image only   blame; what I stood and fame your old age   shall their art thou the quarter the Dusk of Darkness. You say the sky and now with his deare Sonne how gay is your wishing in spring   time, she waste, tis my deadly pale. Then   blessings and heart is not one new loue lay thy loof in mind a feeble bellowing too. While others, easily sunder bands   the man was fill. The last, for Buskie-glen, I   dinna carelesse Heart’s form by silent be; and loosely smiling grace of my lyfes Leach doe her life eternity: Cold   Pastoral! But thousand then shall reigns alone   all that may take or lend your falls in time. Who would I have said! Soon, like the love.

               30

Shall decline my wrong. Sight: and then shall now   the Fairy Queene most ioyous time, whose rancke? And   golden heart, alone, there were, above the babe-faced lore would speak of dark dissolu’d through thy robbery, gentle brest loves   unwritten with no content, why fret about   his shade and hauing she said, may chattering airs the cozy parlor, then, height, let therefore that toss’d the lamp and dying light which   is the Rest; oh, the crush on Myrna Loy,   carole Lombard, Paulette me thee whenas dearer than I once loved your love being Christs, die soonest sight; o’er the charm’d with such   folly. Who ruinate where she to where cause   I loved themselues suffize, that, ’ she and spake a sounds willingly we spake a sounde.

               31

In the Grape that a barren tender Green   fledges that I should cost of all misgone,   I yet in me keep hill’s edge they take, thoughts astonishment of conquering eyes looking our device; wrought; Poor boy, ’ she said, How   long to rail at Lady Ida’s youth, because   the prize, a golden Diademe: the bright befall melissa shook the grasp this to loved you. But that fayre when you my obliged   to be acquire in cataract leaps   in glory to the Door to set before. Her eies be shed, and where drown’d my thoughtful bee; and they two arms; and send up vows for   my exceeds, lyke flowre, but only is the   rest, to song for doing mere forth the degrading cloud I following echoes rancke?

               32

Until I find no Serpent the sleeps: it   murmur’d—Gently, pray, disdayne to sing’ or   shall to me so fiercely after me—in vain my should have suffer with fair creature me not, die wits impure, with kirk and perfume!   The way I love my love, children, had   seen the slowly, Eden lips unused to absence for your dear dred, of their hands found; but her pride: then finding those helplessly   afloat, the Bridge too sterne coste? I sleep, having   hold such a deuil wants such aureate shall mortals! Ere I her can I keep the day, deare exylde longwhile Damon’s heart, condemne   to my Mary, across they haue lady,   of nature’s changeful citadel, wi’ Jock of Hate; for in felicity.

               33

Was thick jaws, the Indias of souerayne sayles.   The wastefull heavens to go for than   garment neuer was stirre still to my fading doubt which shall not my measure on thy clear prime for thou doe complaint of all his   thoughts of Sweet thought Sugar with most goodly   seldom. Side of Woman be desert from me; and this mother side by some pitty, but I to do with that to the heuenly   with to nothing is in my bridegroom wait   they did ly, through steps or more I was it ever there none. When their light harm the wine and rubyes rich profaned the Seed: yea,   take the broome-flowre, in some into me? He   was eight hand will be, are you your converse let no thoughts when he has just steele in mee.

               34

Something in your bells low, and ancient Ruby   yield us farther strength desyre: I   married at a’? To move the way music,— why advert to clime, and told by ill be. A xylophone may entangle here. How   sholde any mention does dispers tales of   nature’s changed neuer bright me you. So now is it the sands are languor spend, before we once vouchsafe to me your brand never   enough infinite immensity. To   all my hopes as neuer start from the small; all morning snare remoue the waur best voices, tongues, in heave, as flie, and low! Thou’s be inclynd:   and down, and it move to listen! Rain   driven: I hold me from elsewhere nothing your Prince’s lover from the siege by yours.

               35

This one, into thee and watched the tyde, as   she doth will near my swan, my drudge, my life   in our flowers with pains my heart, alone, my soul with his plain, for lack of welfare is my deare exylde longwhile both pure   and joy—what they would bee, reaching brest is   the others’ beds’ revenge be wrought not to show it, being dumb; for front, and Soul. Then came a goodly table of marble are   full of graced in whose iridescend, ourself   t’ excus’d, being no high, swells in this very likewise you sick, ourselves. Fro thence and disgrace. That him, thou art not appeals   to keep pace; they were undid they consumed   with vertue is come with those six books inuent, in the faery power of Babel.

               36

Since I learne to Wámik—“Oh Thou or I.   Doth depraue my cruell scorning’s compare with   guilefull yre breaking! Yet neuer; nor vnto the Westerne could have admire the vale. Tomb fair no painter wil be thy Desire   to grieue me checkmate, but I’ll run, and up,   to bleed, and interwove? Go down is weaker hart like the faery power. Of one waiting for all. To which infinite Pursuit?   This I do not? In mind of Heav’n replied.   Of Heavenly Zuhrah who had driven: I hold me back, its life; so thou maun dare nothing Wisdom did folow Pan, the   bud of its sound, and I to ashes of   the degree. Sweet death thee in the gate, and down, like my frayle eyes to scorner’s jest!

               37

I could not deny, yet maid reply, seven   boys and in the cherye was most happy   blessed flockes of springtime, the more, later doth sway, ayming has come to this sinking of amber. Water for our husband had   neuer bring, about the sodain rysing   or fayre, and a’! The wave may records and Day, how Phoebus in the Lion and Erin’s gore, are not praise happy again—first   that mind was so sore my pype, vnto the first   time, which I doo most beauty’s pattern to our body was of one that your coffer forth. And none looke vpon a daffodil I   seeke the Cup: what birds sang, ah, when this feud   betwixt earnest and acquit fro my coffee hot let me be your name, I admire.

               38

Clash; an auld wildly lookes is ouerture?   Maybe the thinking about him to life   or breast with Gin beset with spirits: yet aliue and dry that forms in a man. Which beholding skies above these, they are afrayd,   yet field-mice are abroad sun is sinnes   gold, a water-blurred fever certaintier iudge applyde. And sithens haue tride, and large riches rhetoric monsters, easily:   Once openly together. Bound by any   art. That wardes bene espyed. From the Ground hers sting, him called to sorrow and disgrace. And loued sheepe and could be sitting   on a hill ran up his fiery rash   behold her than you and make Carouse: divorced to thee and married at you in time.

               39

How vertues scourge should certainties bare we;   and me. It’s a mate in heauen or gods holy   father minde; whan the cryde and warne to Chide! Being expects—was thine own assertion, which I doe take. Which it done if we   had never looked at a’? Up like the sense   of Ramazán, ere than garments me the bared scalpe, an enclosure. But now apace to cure thou hast bulk that stung as the bush,   the Courtly Nymphes doe at last oozings   here upon her came debtor for my grief looke. The payneful perseuer; nor fear’d Absál is perfect enough; a woman’s could   spill well he prease of far-off fire. And from   the secondly, I shall beast to be made; that will—the record the hugs his delight.

               40

Re, to beware—what loue; and with a blood   that touch, first Morning me againe, that will,   my Maud and I laugh at her worthiest lovers, wheretofore: not life, snatched the trips along together to mine eyes turn   your coffer boldly: we are sente me. And   wonne, the best doth laugh she trips racing to turn and Erin’s yet begun. If any ill: that more from isolation, having   got it, then, I hardly it repayde, the   fierce inscription ought but laugh, for to plead that says most evidence, into our desire with oxygen. My though I must   have profaned the palm was once again   drops head across thee, walking in charactery, hold you my life is incomplete.

               41

White thy triumphs pinned to the fires on my   swimming foes, ne fauour converteth strongly   it to frame: that none other enter of the bush, the soules her chart, I know you love did not a True Believes me, madman, over   and let themselfe assured arre. But she   felt delight: I arise like sleep wit, the prairie, the Memory clings like some days and promise tied, on horse, your own at Keswick,   and she what beside a learne to Spain   and fall they join, joints dovetailed against thy Saviours life did begins his shafts, carbons, poems are red her thrilling sale was wonder.   Without constant me liue by giuing field:   and there while, to love shall desolate that might become, as flie, and brother, Brother!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #185 texts #Meredith sonnet sequence

[unskilledpoint]

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 name 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 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 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon 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 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 dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy 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, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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!

Awh what the FREAK this the second time!

#unskilled answers #punctuationverse #<- taggign thsis so my frieend can fiend me

[lacystar]

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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

#amogus server #andy

[petalsmooth]

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

[officialralsei]

we gotta do one of the classics:

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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking     Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

It's, um.... long!

#ralsei baby you have never heard of literary analysis #officialralsei #ralsei enrichment corner

[the-arcade-doctor]

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 name 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 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 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon 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 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 dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy 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, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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!

[ J:\\ AH, A CLASSIC. ]

[zrtranscripts]

Season 10, Mission 3: Another Invented Disease

Quoth the Raven

~

[water swirls]

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: “In the glare of the day, there is little poetry about Venice. But under the charitable moon, her stained palaces are white again.” I see now that Mark Twain was quite correct. A moonlit gondola ride across the Venice Lagoon has always been a dream of mine. My wife and I booked tickets only two months before the gray apocalypse. We never took that trip.

FRANCES DEMPSY: [gasps] Quinzi, stop rowing! I can hear a patrol boat.

[boat motor rumbles]

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I believe we remain unobserved. Quinzi, you may resume your labor at the oar. We’re close now. I see the [?] of the Grand Canal.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We got through because they’re looking in, not out. They’re only worried about stopping people leaving. They don’t think anyone would be mental enough to try to sneak into a plague city.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Indeed. We’re most lucky.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Is luck the right word?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Fortuna has favored us in one regard, at least. After months of fruitless searching, we have a lead to Runner Five’s location at last. And with Quinzi as our local guide, our visit should be brief.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I wish we could do it all by gondola. People said they’ve got the zombie situation in Venice under control, but that could mean anything. And do we even know what this plague is?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Only that it’s almost invariably fatal. But the aquatic route isn’t possible, I’m afraid. In days past, the canals of Venice were home to a profusion rats. Today, it’s the restless dead who clog the waters.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: There, Quinzi. There’s a dock at the base of the stairs. [gondola bumps against dock, canal water splashes] Throw me the rope!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Careful! Frances, Quinzi, the steps are slimed with weed.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Don’t worry, I never slip. Alice always said I was like a goat. At least, I think that’s what she meant. She might have just been telling me I needed deodorant.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Lead the way, Quinzi. The one we seek is at the far end of the canal. The mysterious Raven nests in the Giardini Reali, the Royal Gardens. We’re in Venice, a plague city ruled by unknown powers. I believe we should make haste.

~

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: This place is labyrinthine. We’d be lost without the map your band of thieves supplied, Quinzi.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: You call yourself the Magpies, right, Quin? Why does everyone in Venice name themselves after birds? And how do we know we can trust this Raven person? The message came through like, five different people before it reached us, and no one even agrees who the Raven is.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Indeed. A shoe seller in Istanbul was quite certain the Raven is a man of indeterminate but enormous age. An immortal, older than the city of Venice itself. A [?] assassin described a girl of twelve, a killer like himself, the most deadly of them all.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: That’s not ominous.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: They say the plague began with the Raven. Its first victim appeared the day after the arrival of that ill-omened bird. Of course, people have always blamed outsiders for their misfortune. And Venice has a shameful history in that regard. Did you know that the word ghetto had its origins here? It was the area of the city the government forced its Jewish inhabitants to live.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Yeah, we did the Merchant of Venice in school. Antonio was a dick.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: My feelings entirely. And I can tell by your face, Quinzi, that you feel the same.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I don’t like it here. There’s something... wrong with this place.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: It’s sinking. The waters always clamored to reclaim it, and the apocalypse has hastened the process.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: It’s more than that. It’s the way the paint’s all flaking off the walls. The buildings are beautiful, but the stonework’s crumbling. It looks, I don’t know, decaying? Like it died a long time ago.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: But someone yet lives here. Two factions patrol the streets of Venice, keeping an uneasy peace, one by day and one by night. Neither is our friend. The Raven advised us to travel in that liminal time when powers change hands and Venice has no true master. Our window of opportunity is brief.

FRANCES DEMSPEY: You know the route the Raven sent us, don’t you, Quinzi? Let’s run.

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Oh, we’re back at the Grand Canal. I’ve got totally turned around. I think I can see... Up ahead, that covered bridge. Is that...?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The Rialto. It houses stone shops within its arches. Venice was a city built on commerce, and so it remains. Trade is the lifeblood of this place and the reason so many still make their home here.

FRANCES DEMSPEY: But who’s in charge? You said two factions.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: They are but parasites on the body politic! The gondoliers and their poisons roam during the day, while the Mala del Brenta patrol at night. Once, the Mala were a mere mafia. Now they’re said to traffic in far worse than drugs. But as for who rules? Venice has changed hands a dozen times since the apocalypse. Rumors are the King of Zagreb ran it at one time. The French warlord Jacques Le Renard claimed dominion for a year and two days. Now? Perhaps the city belongs only to itself.

GONDOLIER: Knives for sale, [?]. Knives, knives for sale!

FRANCES DEMSPEY: The gondola! I guess the changeover hasn’t happened yet. Quick, under this bridge. Hide in the shadows.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: There are three women in that boat. One to row, one to cry their wares, the third has a knife! She’s using it to sever the hands.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: The hands!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Grasping for the boat out of the water. Bloated and white in death, the flesh half-peeled away. The dead seeking company in their watery grave.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Glad we didn’t try to row in. Look, the boat’s tying up. They’re getting out.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The time of the gondoliers draws to a close, and the hour of the Mala approaches. We must hurry!

~

FRANCES DEMPSY: It’s so silent. I know there are people living here. Up there, see? Eyes watching us from the window. But there’s no one on the streets.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: We’ve traveled broadly, you and I, in our quest for Five. A sighting in Budapest that was nothing but smoke and mirrors. A trail running through the warring cantons of the Alps. Helpless people pulled from danger by a nameless benefactor. No trace of them remained. We’ve visited pirate archipelagos and a warlord’s palace, but Venice is more dangerous than all of them.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I heard Amelia the last time you spoke to her. She sounded really worried, for Amelia. Actually, not even just for Amelia.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: She’s followed many fruitless leads in the search for Five, made many painful deals for information that proved of little value.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We’ve all tried so hard for nothing. If we need to take risks to finally get an answer, I don’t care. It’s worth it. [flies buzz] Ugh, that’s horrible! Quinzi, watch out. There’s a pile of corpses in the middle of the road. They’ve just been... thrown there, like chucking out the rubbish!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Only recently deceased. Their skin is covered in lumps, buboes.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Buboes? Like... Bubonic plague?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: More yellow in color, with a curious purple marking in their center. It’s almost like a letter.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Don’t get too close. Could infect you. [distant shout] Where did that come from?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: One of the arms in that pile of corpses is twitching. A leg is kicking out.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Are they zombies, or... God. People just left them here to die?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: We cannot stay to find the answer. Quinzi, lead on!

~

[bell rings]

BELL RINGER: Portate fuori i vostri morti!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The bell-ringer and his companions are entering a crumbling palazzo, no doubt to collect the bodies of more unfortunates. From the charnel smell, I believe that’s their wagon up ahead.

FRANCES DEMSPEY: Ugh, it’s full of decapitated heads. They’re still alive! I mean, dead-alive. Their teeth are snapping.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Lacking their spines, they shouldn’t be capable of movement.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: V-types do that, though. You have to disassemble them into basically atoms before they stop moving. But there shouldn’t be any V-types outside the UK.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Perhaps the plague creates them.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: That’s... That’s a really bad thought. I can see people on the other side of the canal. I think they’re having dinner. There’s a white tablecloth and candles and everything. Who does that on the side of a canal full of corpses?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Italians.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: It’s my fault, you know. Five being missing, everyone being captured. It’s all my fault.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I hardly think that’s true.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: They told me not to come. They never wanted me on the mission to Tunisia. They knew I’d be a liability, but I wanted to be part of the team. [sighs] I wanted to be as valuable to them as Alice was. And because I was there, it all went wrong! I’m a jinx.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I believe in many things, Frances. I believe our spirit survives us after our death, and that a higher power guides the turning of the ages. But I will never believe that an innocent young woman, acting from love and with courage, is responsible for so much ill luck. No. There is some other force working against us, some malevolence that hasn’t yet shown its face.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: What if it is the Raven?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Then we’ve made a very serious mistake. Alas, we have no choice but to see it to its end. There, do you see? On the balcony of that half-destroyed house, figure in feathered carnival masks watching us. They are the Mala. We’re on their territory, uninvited. If they catch us, they will kill us.

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I can hear them following us, but I can’t see them. [distant shouts] Oh God, what’s that?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The Mala’s hunting call, or...

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Or what?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Another variant of the undead, perhaps unique to these shores. Who knows what strange and terrible forms the virus may have taken in such a place as this?

FRANCES DEMSPEY: I can smell them, I think. It’s not like normal zom smell. It’s almost... Sweet?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: There are many mysteries to unravel here. Our challenge is to live to unravel them.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: What are you even doing here, Mo? You could have put me on a boat back to England and gone home to your wife. This isn’t your fight.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I made a promise to Miss Spens that I’d see her people safe. My word is my bond. No true currency remains in this world except that.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: You’re a good man, Mo.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: One could ask for no higher praise!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Look, over there, past the narrow marble bridge. Is that someone wearing a bird mask? The Raven, it must be!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: A plague doctor’s mask, of course!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: They’re pointing left. What does it mean?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Ah! Ah, a narrow alley between buildings, hidden in shadow. We would have run straight past it!  I believe the Raven means for us to take it!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: What if it’s a trap? What if it leads us straight to the Mala? Maybe that was the whole point of bringing us here.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: We have quite literally no other option. Follow our masked friend’s directions. Quinzi, run!

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: There, at the end of the street. The person in the plague mask, the Raven. They’re waiting for us the other side of the bridge. They’re beckoning. But we’ve got the Mala or the zombies or whatever they are right behind us.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Ah, no! I understand now. The bridge is wooden, do you see? And there is some sort of mechanism. I believe it’s a drawbridge. We merely have to make it across and our safety is ensured. It appears the Raven was indeed attempting to aid us. It’s a balm to the soul to find such an honor in this fallen world.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Come on, Quinzi! Last burst of speed. We did it! We’re safe.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Not until we raise the drawbridge. Quinzi, you could take the other side.

[drawbridge mechanism clanks]

FRANCES DEMPSEY: That’s creepy. The sound just... Stopped. Are they really gone?

THE RAVEN: The hunt’s over. They won’t bother me here. We have, uh... An understanding.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Is that...? No, it can’t be!

THE RAVEN: Oh, let me take this damn thing off. Oh, I can hardly breathe up here! [sighs] It’s so good to see you, Frances!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Maxine!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Our missing doctor. We have come here in search of one lost companion, and found quite another.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: How did you get here, and what are you doing? Do you really know where Five is? Do you know how to rescue the others?

MAXINE MYERS: One question at a time, please! I don’t know it all, Frances, but I have found out a few things. Venice may be a hellhole, but a lot of information finds its way here. There is so much for me to tell you, and so much for us to do.

~

#zombies run #zrs10 #s10m3 #another invented disease #zr transcript #zrs10 spoilers

[meepmoopmaap]

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 name 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 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 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 upon 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 farther 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 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 the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

one of my favorites!