C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Poe

And the Raven, never flitting,

Still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming

Of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o’er him streaming

Throws his shadow on the floor,

And my soul from out that shadow,

That lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted—nevermore.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!

From the molten golden notes,

And all in tune

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats

On the moon!

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Sound—

That stealeth ever on the ear of him

Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,

And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—

Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

His eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.