(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