The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispéd and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir—It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down Yaanek