Late, upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, chill but cheery,
Over certain prosy volumes of Contemporary lore—
’Midst prophetic pages prowling, suddenly I heard a growling,
As of something faintly howling, howling at my chamber-door.
“’Tis some poor stray tyke,” I muttered, “howling at my chamber-door;
Only that, and nothing more.”
Eugh! distinctly I remember it was in the cold December,
And my fire to its last ember burned, while outer blasts did roar.
Fearfully I funked the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my friends, or, to my sorrow, add to my coal-merchant’s score—