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Forbore to upraise the sash.
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That's it.
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Edgar Allan Poe.
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And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
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On that pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
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And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
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And the lamp-light o'er
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him steaming throws his shadow on the floor;
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My soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
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Shall be lifted...
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Nevermore.
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Who's next?