Less sad would fall on bibulous' souls, no doubt,
The refrain of the Raven.
"London lies shuttered close. Law's measured beat
Falls echoing down the shadow-chequered street;
A distant cab-wheel clatters;
The wastrel's drunken cry, the waif's low moan,
Reach not the ear of tired Philistia, prone,
Dreaming of other matters."
The Shadow's slow subacid speech, I knew,
Foreboded more than mirth. Downward we drew,