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!
Part of Tomb of Edgar Poe, The
