|
| |
With Apologies to Mister Poe
Late at night I hear their screeching,
Feel their evil arms outreaching
Like some minister a-preaching
In a temple made of light.
How my poor ears get to ringing,
As a band of angels shrilly singing
On some lonely stretch of highway
In the night.
I think I hear the bells
Of a hundred thousand hells.
They won't allow me sleep,
Nor bless my soul to keep.
Oh, how they make me weep
As their awful midnight screaming
Keeps my fevered brain from dreaming.
I toss this way and that,
Like a trapped and frightened bat
As it scrambles for the door
And croaks out: Nevermore!
Copyright ©
Ellen Gwaltney Bales
|
|