One evening over which I stayed awake by thinking of Lenore,
The rare and the young girl, the object of my sorrow,
The soul which of above hums me a refrain,
I had opened a book while waiting for the dawn,

When I heard clashes, I still remember it,
Knocks in my window, with so not much vigour
That I wondered, wanting to remain serene:
” Devil! Is it a visitor, or this wind which I loathe? “

I pushed shutters without hesitation
And there, me surprising, gloomy vision,
A crow! The bird whom we say of ill omen;

He went to perch, forgetting its broad-leaved trees,
Over my door by way of figure,
And spent there his night, saying to me: “Nevermore”.

According to the poem “The Raven” d’Edgar Allan Poe

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