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

...If you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel

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.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore!

Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger.

In spite of the air of fablethe public were still not at all disposed to receive it as fable. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity.