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ONCE upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious Volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, Rapping at my chamber door. "'T is some visitor," I muttered,

"Tapping at my chamber door —

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember
It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember

Wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; —
vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow —
Sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden

Whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating,
'T is some visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door;

This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul


grew stronger; Hesitating then

no longer, Sir," said I,

"or Madam, truly
Your forgiveness

I implore;
But the fact is

I was napping.
And so gently you

came rapping,
And so faintly

you came tapping, Tapping at my

chamber door,
That I scarce was sure

I heard you "—
Here I opened

wide the door:
Darkness there and

nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

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Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals
Ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken,
And the darkness gave no token.
And the only word there spoken

Was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more

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