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.
“ ‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this and nothing more."
by Edgar Allan Poe, from The Raven
Over many a quaint game and curious volume of strictures
While I nodded
To my insipid drawing
nearly napping, suddenly there came a blurring
As if some lost raven appearing
from the other side of blue boring
‘Tis some visitor I muttered
Certainly an escapee
from Thaumatrope
Only this and nothing more."
Yellow wells for eyes, a knife for mouth
A crashing glass bell from throat
And he sang me a birthday song:
"Three hundred ninety
four thousand and two
hundred hours
Of
Sprinkle for you!
Minus one for first breath
Minus two for last
While I offered him a red apple to quell his hunger
caressed his old grey wing
Ordered him out
Fly! Fly! Go!
But, he perched silent
In cage old golden
Hélas, he could not tell me more.
