The Tomb of Edgar Poe

As to Himself at last eternity changes him The Poet reawakens with a naked sword His century appalled at never having heard That in this voice a triumphant death had sung its hymn.

They, like a writhing hydra, hearing seraphim Bestow a purer sense on the language of the horde, Loudly proclaimed that the magic potion had been poured From the dregs of some dishonored mixture of foul slime.

From the war between Earth and Heaven, what grief! If understanding cannot sculpt a bas-relief To ornament the dazzling tomb of Poe:

Calm block here fallen from obscure disaster, Let this granite at least mark the boundaries evermore To the dark flights of blasphemy hurled to the future.