Or my own dark books of horror—horror for having more!
A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er
My ‘Dream,’ and nothing more.”
“And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover
Chill’d me—filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before,
So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in,
I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole door;
A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more,
Or else some other bore.’”
“Presently my pen grew fiery,—hesitating an inquiry,