Edgar Allan Poe - Birthday
The Tomb of Edgar Allan Poe
Just as eternity transforms him at last unto Himself,
The Poet rouses with a naked sword
His age terrified at not having discerned
That death was triumphant in that strange voice!
They, like a Hydra's vile spasm on hearing the angel
Once give a purer meaning to the words of the tribe
Loudly proclaimed the sorcery drunk
In the dishonored flow of some foul brew.
From hostile soil and cloud, O lament!
If our thought fails to carve a bas-relief
With which to adorn the shining tomb of Poe.
Mute block fallen here below from some dim disaster
Let this granite at least forever be a barrier
To the foul flights of Blasphemy scattered in the future.