And 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.

You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders.

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.

If you run out of ideas follow the road; you'll get there

That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.

And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.