Classic Poem

A gloomy day in late September dies
Away in storm; the midnight hour is cold;
Mildew is in the air — a vaulty mould.
One car up silent Broadway swiftly flies.
On Reade street a night-watchman stoutly tries
The doors of commerce, and before an old
Lone dwelling-house, whose age may not be told,
He stops transfixed, with startled, staring eyes;
For there, as if embodied from the gust
That sweeps the rain down with malignant might,
Something that is not human seems to stir —
A cloaked and weazen shape, with key of rust
Fumbling the lock. " What do you here to-night? "
I lived here once . " Who are you? " Aaron Burr .