Ballad: The Crestfallen Poem by Caryl Ramsdale

‘Twas yesterday or one day before
a flight drew me to his door.
Outside the entrance to his humble place
rapping, tapping, slowly I paced.

His small cottage at the top of a hill,
on an acre or two—stood so still—
‘neath some towering old-fashioned trees
of weeping blossoms, that teased
the breeze, with leaves spread out to fan the roof—
cooling dark shadows ghosted aloof.
Short green grass, smooth and soft on my eyes—
fence lined full richness—lives and lies.

Outside the entrance to his humble place
rapping, tapping, slowly I paced.
Someone’s whispering behind the door—
“Lenore! ” “ Lenore! ” “Nevermore! ”