Then upon the soft seat sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this holy bird of yore—
What this lovely, sweet, angelic, quaint, prophetic bird of yore—
Meant by saying, “Evermore?”
XIII.
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,
Till the calm light from those mild eyes seem’d to illume my bosom’s core;
Banishing all fear and sadness, bringing thither peace and gladness,
Driving out surmise of madness—lately coming o’er and o’er—
Madness casting dreadful shadow,—lately coming o’er and o’er—