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The Ghost of Lenore
She shouldered silken purple drapes aflap on latticed glass, unlatched for evermore-- She heard the devil's taunting rap tap tap that lulled her through the haunted chamber door. White death flew by and perched the lore of Poe atop her heaving bust. The ghost, Lenore cascaded fast ignoring cries of woe from Poe. And each December-gust comes last. The raven, Nevermore, a stately foe, a shorebird bearing shadows from the past came flitting dying embers, echoes, through the chamber door; his velvet presence vast, said nothing but, "Lenore", it's ghastly true! Tis evermore, this stirring of the Rue. ©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen |