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(1847)
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1809-1849)
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun–of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope–for life–ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth–in Virtue–in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most–whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship–oh, remember
The truest–the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
THE END
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