The Tomb of Edgar Poe

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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.