With green eyes and ebon hair.
Still upon the captain’s shoulder, strange it seemed to the beholder,
In the twilight of the cabin, among strangers standing so;
And I fancied it would fright her when the cuddy lamps grew lighter.
And I mused upon the writer of “The Raven,” Edgar Poe,
On that weird and wondrous genius, wilful, wayward Edgar Poe,
Dead now eighteen years ago!
There she stood, with green eyes gleaming; there she stood, with tail outstreaming,
A black line athwart the cuddy, rising somewhat high in air.
And the captain look’d behind him, as though puss in spell did bind him,