Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore,-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"

And still 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.

It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.