But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only / That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Besieging the castle will bleed it white and force it to surrender.

I have a passion for the name of Mary, / For once it was a magic sound to me: / And still it half calls up the realm of fairy / Where I beheld what never was to be.

[…]She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted Among the buttons poured out in her lap. I verified the name next morning: Toffile. The rural letter box said Toffile Lajway.