You're listening to an airwave media podcast. Edgar Allan Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door.

Only this and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying amber wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly, I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books a cease of sorrow.

Sorrow for the lost Lenore.

For the rare and radiant maiden

owned the angel's name, Leno. For the rare and radiant maiden,

Honed the angel's name, Lenore,

Nameless, here, forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic

terrors never felt before, so that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating,

Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, it is this, and nothing more.

Presently, my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer.

Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping and so faintly you came rapping and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door that

I scarce was sure I heard you.

Here I opened wide the door. Darkness, there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering, fearing, Dreaming dreams no more to ever dare to dream before.

But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word.

Lenor?

This I whispered and an echo mumbered back the word.

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