Ulalume by Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crispèd and sere --

The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October / Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, / In the misty mid region of Weir --

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, / In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic, / Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul --

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic / As the scoriac rivers that roll --

As the lavas that restlessly roll / Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek / In the ultimate climes of the pole --

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek / In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober, / But our thoughts they were palsied and sere --

Our memories were treacherous and sere --

For we knew not the month was October, / And we marked not the night of the year --

(Ah, night of all nights in the year! )

We noted not the dim lake of Auber --

(Though once we had journeyed down here) --

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, / Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent / And star-dials pointed to morn --

As the sun-dials hinted of morn --