To Edgar Allan Poe

By George Sterling

Time, who but jests with sword and sovereignty,
    Confirming these as phantoms in his gloom
    Or bubbles that his arid hours consume,
Shall mold an undeparting light of thee—
A star whereby futurity shall see
    How Song's eventual majesties illume,
    Beyond Augustan pomp or battle-doom,
Her annals of abiding heraldry.

Time, tho' his mordant ages gnaw the crag,
    Shall blot no hue from thy seraphic wings
        Nor vex thy crown and choral glories won,
Albeit the solvents of Oblivion drag
    To dust the sundered sepulchers of kings,
        In desolations splendid with the sun.

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