And darkness veiled her eyes; she never knew
How long this was, but when she slowly grew
Back from death’s counterfeit, and looked around,
So little change was there, that it might seem
The scene had been but a disordered dream.
The Raven sat in his accustomed place,
Smoking his solitary pipe; his face,
A gloomy mask that none might penetrate,
Betrayed no sign of anger, grief, or hate;
Absorbed so deep in thoughts that none might share,