On this very day so dreary,
While I wrote poetry weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, there came a tapping,
As of some one gently r-r-r-rapping at my bedroom door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'rap-tapping at my bedroom door -
Only this, and nothing, oh I say Poe Nothing- more.'

This is what happens when we improvise Edgar Allan Poe. on dark days.