Ode to the Master of the Macabre

O, somber sonneteer of midnight’s hour,
Who wove the velour shroud with silver pen,
You found a throne within a crumbling tower,
Far from the waking minds of mortal men.
With Raven’s plume, you painted stark despair,
And chased the radiant ghost of lost Lenore,
Amidst the gloom, you found a beauty rare,
And taught the heart to weep—and dream—“Nevermore.”

You dove beneath the surface of the sea,
Where shadowy dreams in silent waters dwell,
To wake the spirit of Annabel Lee,
And toll the bell in sorrow’s deepest well.
A mind of terrors, madness, yet so bright,
A tortured soul that sought the star-lit shore,
You turned the deepest darkness into light,
And hold us in your melancholy lore.

Oh, Poe, who sat on Pallas’ sculptured bust,
And felt the horror of the phantom wind,
You transformed ashes, longing, and the dust,
Into the finest music, refined and thinned.
Though you have left this world of pain and fear,
Your shadow lingers, haunting evermore,
A master of the strange, the dark, the drear,
We bow before your lonely, haunted door.

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