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 be

ing

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 that 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—

Fill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of Never - Nevermore." "

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into

smiling,

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

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

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of

yore

What this grim, ungainly, 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

these angels he hath sent thee

by

Quaff, O 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 en

plore

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!" 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!

my door!

quit the bust above

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form

from off my door!"

Quotn 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!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.1

IN SCHOOL-DAYS.

STILL sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

I EDGAR ALLAN POE, born in Boston in 1809, was educated in Baltimore and in England, and studied at the University of Virginia, after which he passed a year in Europe. He wrote for and edited various magazines, and it was at this time he produced his extraordinary stories. The Raren is the one work, however, which has attained world-wide popularity and given Poe enduring fame. His mind was of a gloomy and morbid cast, which was enhanced by a loose life and intemperate habits He died at Baltimore in 1849.

The charcoal frescos on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying

The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face

Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left he lingered;
As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you,

Because,"

the brown eyes lower fell,

"Because, you see, I love you!"