Igen
Kände att jag måste delge två stycken ur dikten "Raven" av Edgar Allan Poe, fantastiskt poet, någon liknande existerar definitivt inte idag.
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 repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ?
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
? This it is, and nothing more."
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