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.