This man whose sorrow could not awaken
A man who loved, yet, loved alone
Whose women had hearts that had been taken
Thus turned the poets heart to stone
From pen flowed words more eloquent
Ink flowing through his veins as blood
These women whose hearts were diffident
And understood not how the poet loved
Inspired in prose a beauty beyond
The earthly beauty of aspect or eyes
When falsely compared as lovingly fond
As poor Edgar was of serenest skies
For one of my favorite authors, Edgar Allen Poe
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