As of some one pertly rapping, rapping at my chamber door!
“’Tis,” growled I, “that maid of all-work rapping at my chamber-door—
What on earth can it be for.”
But too well do I remember that hungriest, dreariest November;
Not a single blessèd ember cast its glow upon the floor,
Nor dared I hope that on the morrow I could venture more to borrow
On my books, which, to my sorrow, had been carried by the score
“To my uncle’s,” by the slattern whom the Missis called Lenore—
Why, I could not say, I’m sure.
And the shiv’ring, cold, uncertain rustling of each paper curtain