Let us quaff hope’s sweet nepenthe, and forget those days of yore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil! ‘Things are going to the devil,’
Is the formula of fogies, I have heard that bosh before;
Times look dark, but hearts undaunted find the future still enchanted,
With fair visions such as haunted valiant souls in days of yore.
Can’t you, can’t you look less glum? Keep up your pecker, I implore.”
Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But the heavens still bend above us, happy days are still in store;