Spleen

  The rainy moon of all the world is weary,
  And from its urn a gloomy cold pours down,
  Upon the pallid inmates of the mortuary,
  And on the neighbouring outskirts of the town.

  My wasted cat, in searching for a litter,
  Bestirs its mangy paws from post to post;
  (A poet's soul that wanders in the gutter,
  With the jaded voice of a shiv'ring ghost).

  The smoking pine-log, while the drone laments,
  Accompanies the wheezy pendulum,
  The while amidst a haze of dirty scents,

  —Those fatal remnants of a sick man's room—
  The gallant knave of hearts and queen of spades
  Relate their ancient amorous escapades.