Just as eternity transforms him at last unto Himself, The Poet rouses with a naked sword His age terrified at not having discerned That death was triumphant in that strange voice! They, like a Hydra's vile start on hearing the angel Once give a purer meaning to the words of the tribe Loudly proclaimed sorcery drunk In the dishonest flow of some foul brew. From hostile soil and cloud, O grief! If our imagination does not carve a bas-relief With which to adorn the shining tomb of Poe Silent block fallen here below from some dim disaster Let this granite at least forever be a boundary To the foul flights of straggling Blasphemy in the future. |