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(1848)
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1809-1849)
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet-
Trash of all trash!–how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles–ephemeral and so transparent-
But this is, now–you may depend upon it-
Stable, opaque, immortal–all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.
THE END
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