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 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.
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Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe (/poʊ/; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Poe is be…
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