Eternity at last made him into himself,

The Poet gave rise to a naked sword
His century appalled at not knowing
Whether death triumphed in this strange voice!

They, like a hydra’s vile outburst, once heard the angel
Giving purest meaning to the words of the tribe
Proclaimed on high, drank the spell
In the flood of some black mixture without honor.

From hostile soil and skies, o grief!
If our idea does not sculpt a bas-relief
To adorn Poe's grave dazzlingly

Calm block fallen out of an obscure disaster,
May this granite at least forever bear the marks
Of black flights of Blasphemy scattered in the future.

03/12/08