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That Raven on yon left-hand oak (Curse on his ill-betiding croak) Bodes me no good. - John Gay, Fables--The Farmer's Wife and the Raven The Raven's house is built with reeds,-- Sing woe, and alas is me! And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, High on the hollow tree; And the Raven himself, telling his beads In penance for his past misdeeds, Upon the top I see. - Thomas D'Arcy McGee, The Penitent Raven The raven once in snowy plumes was drest, White as the whitest dove's unsullied breast, Fair as the guardian of the Capitol, Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl His tongue, his prating tongue had changed him quite To sooty blackness from the purest white. - Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso), Metamorphoses--Story of Coronis, (Addison's translation) 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. - Edgar Allan Poe And still 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. - Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven (st. 18) Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore,-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!" - Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven (st. 8) The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. - William Shakespeare Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. - William Shakespeare, Hamlet Prince of Denmark (Hamlet at III, ii) The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. - William Shakespeare, Macbeth (Lady Macbeth at I, v) Thou said'st--O, it comes o'er my memory As doth the raven o'er the infected house, Boding to all!--He had my handkerchief. - William Shakespeare, Othello the Moor of Venice (Othello at IV, i) Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? - William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus (Titus at III, i)
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