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- 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-
-