"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 Aiden
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 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,
