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Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Alfred Tennyson

THE THROSTLE

"Summer is coming, summer is coming.
I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"
Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue.

Last year you sang it as gladly.

"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new

That you should carol so madly?

"Love again, song again, nest again, young again,"

Never a prophet so crazy!

And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,

See, there is hardly a daisy.

"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"

O warble unchidden, unbidden!

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,

And all the winters are hidden.

- Alfred Tennyson

THE RAVEN

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 sought 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 re

peating

""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,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window

lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore: "T is the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of

yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or

stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber

door,

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door: Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it

wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art

sure no craven,

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."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he flut

tered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered, — "Other friends have flown before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and

store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Dis

aster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

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But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust

and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

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