Surcease of Sorrow

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Prophet still, if bird or devil, Till the dirges of his heart that melancholy burden bore. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. On the morrow, he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Quoth the raven: 'Nevermore' var ref = (''+document.referrer+''); var w_h = window.screen.width + " x " + window.screen.height; document.write('