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Lenore

I see his book of poetry Master poet of bygone years And from his grave he speaks to me With inaudible words quite clear. I reach for Poe and read Lenore: “Ah, broken is the golden bowl” You must “weep now or never more!” I knew her not till now, poor soul! But I’ll recite a monody of youth, death and slanderous tongues with intonated prosody for this youth that died so young.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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