To Marie Louise (Shew)

  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
  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 thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
  In thy 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.

1847.





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        Edgar Allan Poe