Once upon a midnight dreary, there he pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. And his eyes had all the seeming of a student's that is reading, reading through one too many bindings of long-outdated bore. Still the raven, never flitting, still propped up he is sitting, with that pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; simply this - and not much more.