No--

it was a door
shaped as a fox foot
through which a snore
crept in red light
o'er the clover

clod is bong
more hallelujah
than kissing fish
fighting fish
if yes congeals

Ah, distinctly I remember
it was in the bleak December
And each separate dying member
drooled its wrought iron ghost
upon the floor

no, it was a door
the silken, sad, uncertain rustling
of the raven-feathered
manticore

'a shapely hovering hole'
Quoth the raven manticore
a shag now radiating
from the garden door

no
clod is bong
a light revered
inside  the lacy
pallid bust of Pallas

which sits above
my chamber door
rendered ever lovely
in ornamental corn

a lamp-satyr
drooled
in satire's urn