That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor.
Or perhaps it’s Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore—
“This it is, and nothing more.”
Back I dashed the door, half crazy—had my wits turned mad or hazy—
For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore,
And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he,
As he slowly strutted past me, perching o’er my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst—somewhat broken—o’er the door,
Croaking “Caucus,” nothing more.
* * * * *