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, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.

You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good.

I fell in love with melancholy

For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it.

Once upon a midnight dreary