* * * * * EDGAR A. POE. ――――:o:―――― PARALUNE. (_A Poe-tic Fragment_). [A new moonshade, called a Paralune, has been introduced to preserve Ladies’ complexions from the alleged injurious effects of moonlight.] Then I looked round for SUKEY, and missed her; But back she came bounding right soon; And I said, “What’s the matter, sweet Sister?” She pointed at once to the moon, To the silvery sheeny full moon. “Hang it, SUKEY,” I cried, “you’re a twister! What’s _that_? To explain were a boon.” She replied, “Paralune! Paralune! ’Tis the moonshade, the new Paralune.” Then she said, “She’s a danger is Dian, A Satellite Ladies mistrust, To the skin she is terribly tryin’, And makes one’s complexion like dust. Red, freckled, or dingy as dust―― Nay, tanned like the tawny-maned Lion.” “What nonsense!” cried I, in disgust. SUKEY sobbed, “You’re unjust, you’re unjust! And carry a moonshade I _must_!” Then I melted, and tried to look pleasant, And tempted her out ’neath the moon! Explained the full disc and the crescent, Each scoriac rock and lagoon; And her moonshade she dropped very soon; But next morning her nose was rubescent, Her temper was much out of tune; And she wailed, “Paralune! Paralune! ’Tis the fault of my lost Paralune!” _Punch_, September 10, 1881. ――――:o:―――― THE WILLOWS. The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year; Like the skies I was perfectly sober, As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,―― At the Nightingale,――perfectly sober, And the willowy woodland, down here. Here, once in an alley Titanic Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,―― Of Ten-pins,――with Mary, my soul; They were days when my heart was volcanic, And impelled me to frequently roll, And made me resistlessly roll, Till my ten-strikes created a panic In the realms of the Boreal pole, Till my ten-strikes created a panic With the monkey atop of his pole. I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,―― My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year; I forgot that sweet _morceau_ of Auber That the band oft performed down here, And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale’s music of Shear.