The Night Before Samhain Poem by John Bliven Morin

‘Twas the night before Samhain
And through Usher’s flat,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a bat.

Fortunato was sealed
All snug in his wall;
Lygeia, in her tomb,
Reclined on her pall.

When out in the bone-yard
I heard a strange sound;
I thought it was Baskerville’s
Horrible hound.

The moonlight that shown
On the new-fallen snow
Revealed a small sleigh
And Edgar A. Poe;

The sad little man
Did morosely exclaim
To his eight spooky ravens
As he called them by name:

'On Blackie, on Midnight,
On Shadow and Jet,
On Tombstone, on Newgrave,
On Mortis and Debt! '

And he fiendishly laughed
As they rose toward the moon,
“Merry Halloween, all,
For tomorrow’s too soon! ”