TO EDGAR ALLAN POE
Time, who but jests with sword and sovereignty,
Confirming these as phantoms in his gloom
Or bubbles that his arid hours consume,
Shall mold an undeparting light of thee—
A star whereby futurity shall see
How Song's eventual majesties illume,
Beyond Augustan pomp or battle-doom,
Her annals of abiding heraldry.
Time, tho' his mordant ages gnaw the crag,
Shall blot no hue from thy seraphic wings
Nor vex thy crown and choral glories won,
Albeit the solvents of Oblivion drag
To dust the sundered sepulchers of kings,
In desolations splendid with the sun.
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