Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/123



solace in a dying hour!
 * Such, father, is not (now) my theme—

I will not madly deem that power
 * Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
 * Unearthly pride hath revell'd in—
 * I have no time to dote or dream:

You call it hope—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope—Oh God! I can—
 * Its fount is holier—more divine—

I would not call thee fool, old man,
 * But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
 * Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

O yearning heart! I did inherit
 * Thy withering portion with the fame,

The searing glory which hath shone Amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again— O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime.