Classic Poem

" The skies they were ashen and sober,
The leaves they were crisped and sere. "
Quite so. For the month was October,
In this most immemorial year —
This beaucoup immemorial year.

The skies, like ourselves, they are sober,
The leaves, like ourselves, they are sere;
There is nothing to drink this October,
Not even a light wine or beer —
Not ev'n that poor creature small beer.

How few are the rhymes for October
For poets of accurate ear;
But now they may venture on " no-beer " :
Imperfect? Ah, yes — but how near! —
How dismally, drearily near!

As for instance: The month was October,
Our throats they were crisped and sere;
And I said, " Ulalume, there is no beer
In this arid mid-region of Weir —
Not a sip, not a sud in all Weir. "

Her face it grew ashen and sober,
I knew that her end it was near.
She died by the dark tarn of Auber,
And I laid my lost love on a bier —
On a thrice immemorial bier.