Tomb of Edgar Poe, The

As to itself eternity transforms it

         The Poet with a simple song uplifts him

         His century alarmed yet know not

         That death was glorified in that strange voice.

But as the writhing of a hydra, vile,

Hearing of olden time the Angel give

A purer meaning to the words of the tribe,

Well all deem they have drunken sorcery

In the unhonored flood of some black brew!

Alas the wrong of hostile earth and heaven!

         Dark black from dim disaster fall’n forage

I with it my thought carve not a bas-relief

Whence is adorned the dazzling tomb of Poe,

At last may even the granite show its bourn

To the old swarms of drunkery, in the future!