1847
                                   TO M.L.S.
                               by Edgar Allan Poe
 
     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.
 
 
                   -THE END-