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XCVI

AUTUMN

A Dirge

HE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are

dying;

And the year

On the earth; her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead

Is lying.

Come, Months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array,
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.

Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;

Let your light sisters play;
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.

P. B. Shelley

Ο

XCVII

THE RAVEN

NCE 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 mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door

Only this and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem

ber,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wish'd the morrow; - vainly had I 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

Thrill'd 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 im

plore ;

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 open'd wide the door;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word Lenore !'

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon I heard again 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 a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of

yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door

Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door

Perch'd 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 marvell'd 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 sculptur'd bust above his chamber door,

With such a 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 utter'd - not a feather then he flutter'd

Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, 'Other friends have

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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

Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden

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