The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По

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less - in short's a fool

       Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,

       Being ignorant of one important rule,

       Employed in even the theses of the school-

       Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name

       (Called anything, its meaning is the same)

       "Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

      Enigma

       Table of Contents

      For the Baltimore Visiter

       The noblest name in Allegory's page,

       The hand that traced inexorable rage;

       A pleasing moralist whose page refined,

       Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;

       A tender poet of a foreign tongue,

       (Indited in the language that he sung.)

       A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page

       At once the shame and glory of our age,

       The prince of harmony and stirling sense,

       The ancient dramatist of eminence,

       The bard that paints imagination's powers,

       And him whose song revives departed hours,

       Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,

       In boldness of design surpassing all.

       These names when rightly read, a name (make) known

       Which gathers all their glories in its own.

      Epigram for Wall Street

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      I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,

       Better than banking, trade or leases —

       Take a bank note and fold it up,

       And then you will find your money in creases!

       This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,

       Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;

       And every time that you fold it across,

       'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

      -The End-

      Evangeline

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      Do tell when shall we make common sense men out of the owl-eyed pundits

       Out of The Frog-faced stupid old God-born Pundits who lost in a fog-bank

       Strut about all along shore there somewhere close by the Down East

       Frog Duck Pond munching of pea nuts and pumpkins and buried in big-wigs

       Why ask who ever yet saw money made out of a fat old

       Jew or downright upright nutmegs out of a pine-knot

      Fanny

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      The dying swan by northern lakes

       Sings its wild death song, sweet and clear,

       And as the solemn music breaks

       O'er hill and glen dissolves in air ;

       Thus musical thy soft voice came,

       Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

      Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,

       Which veils the solemn midnight sky,

       Piercing cold evening's sable shroud,

       Thus came the first glance of that eye ;

       But like the adamantine rock,

       My spirit met and braved the shock.

      Let memory the boy recall

       Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,

       When far away his footsteps fall,

       Think that he deem'd thy charms divine ;

       A victim on love's alter slain,

       By witching eyes which looked disdain.

      Impromptu – To Kate Carol

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      When from your gems of thought I turn

       To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,

       I scarce know which to prize most high —

       The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.

      -The End-

      Lines on Ale

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      Fill with mingled cream and amber

       I will drain that glass again.

       Such hilarious visions clamber

       Through the chamber of my brain -

       Quaintest thoughts - queerest fancies

       Come to life and fade away;

       What care I how time advances?

       I am drinking ale today.

      O, Tempora! O, Mores!

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      O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion

       That you are changing sadly your dominion —

       I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased,

       For men have none at all, or bad at least;

       And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many

       The "good old times" were far the worst of any,

       Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle,

       Yet still I think these worse than them a little.

       I've been a thinking — isn't that the phrase? —

       I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways —

       I've been a thinking, whether it were best

       To take things seriously, or all in jest;

       Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore,

       To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore,

       Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher,

       Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over

       The page of life and grin at the dog-ears,

       As though he'd say, "Why, who the devil cares?"

       This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw

       The luckless query from a member's claw!

       Instead of two sides, Job [Bob] has nearly eight,

      

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