this is nothing

 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over the big lake they called Gitche Gumee

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of the lake, it is said, never gives up her dead

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “When the skies of November turn gloomy

            Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more

Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named the Edmund Fitzgerald—

That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed

Nameless here for evermore

there was almost something here but it's nothing