1835
                                     TO F--
                               by Edgar Allan Poe
 
       Beloved! amid the earnest woes
         That crowd around my earthly path-
       (Drear path, alas! where grows
       Not even one lonely rose)-
         My soul at least a solace hath
       In dreams of thee, and therein knows
       An Eden of bland repose.
 
       And thus thy memory is to me
         Like some enchanted far-off isle
       In some tumultuous sea-
       Some ocean throbbing far and free
         With storms- but where meanwhile
       Serenest skies continually
       Just o'er that one bright island smile.
 
                    -THE END-