THE WILLOWS.
AFTER EDGAR A. POE.
The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year;
Like the skies I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear—
At the Nightingale—perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland, down here.
Here, once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins—I roamed with my soul—
Of Ten-pins—with Mary, my soul;
