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HE skies they were ashen and sober,

The streets they were dirty and drear;

It was night in the month of October,

Of my most immemorial year;

Like the skies I was perfectly sober,

As I stopped at the mansion of Shear—

At the Nightingale—perfectly sober,

And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here, once in an alley Titanic

Of Ten-pins—I roamed with my soul—

Of Ten-pins—with Mary, my soul;

They were days when my heart was volcanic,