Spleen

Pluvius, this whole city on his nerves, Spills from his urn great waves of chilling rain On graveyards' pallid inmates, and he pours Mortality in gloomy district streets. My restless cat goes scratching on the tiles To make a litter for his scabby hide. Some poet's phantom roams the gutter-spouts, Moaning and whimpering like a freezing soul. A great bell wails-within, the smoking log Pipes in falsetto to a wheezing clock, And meanwhile, in a reeking deck of cards Some dropsied crone's foreboding legacy The dandy Jack of Hearts and Queen of Spades Trade sinister accounts of wasted love.