Spleen

Old Pluvius, month of rains, in peevish mood

Pours from his urn chill winter's sodden gloom

On corpses fading in the near graveyard,

On foggy suburbs pours life's tedium.

My cat seeks out a litter on the stones,

Her mangy body turning without rest.

An ancient poet's soul in monotones

Whines in the rain-spouts like a chilblained ghost.

A great bell mourns, a wet log wrapped in smoke

Sings in falsetto to the wheezing clock,

While from a rankly perfumed deck of cards

(A dropsicle old crone's fatal bequest)

The Queen of Spades, the dapper Jack of Hearts

Speak darkly of dead loves, how they were lost.