Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November;
Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone’s nose upon the floor,
Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow
From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store!
If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford’s score!
Name it not for evermore.
Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal,
In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot’s[10] days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door—