"The sun was sinking--still I lay
Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed;
I thought to mingle there our clay; 765
And my dim eyes of death had need,
No hope arose of being freed.
I cast my last looks up the sky,
And there between me and the sun
I saw the expecting raven fly, 770
Who scarce would wait till both should die
Ere his repast begun.
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more,
And each time nearer than before;
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 775
And once so near me he alit
I could have smote, but lack'd the strength;
But the slight motion of my hand,
And feeble scratching of the sand,
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice,
Together scared him off at length.--
I know no more--my latest dream
Is something of a lovely star
Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 785
And went and came with wandering beam,
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense
Sensation of recurring sense,
And then subsiding back to death,
And then again a little breath, 790
A little thrill, a short suspense,
An icy sickness curdling o'er
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain--
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain,
A sigh, and nothing more. 795