But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking,
I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore,
Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore,
Meant by croaking “Nevermore!”
Then methought the air grew denser, darkened as by cynic censor,
Some Cassandra whose forecastings are of evil days in store.
“Croak no more!” I cried. “Content thee with the gifts the gods have sent thee;
Give us respite and nepenthe from sad dreams of days of yore!