Philip Alexander Bruce (1856-1933)

Edgar Allan Poe

Time weighs the destinies that men befall,
Bestows new laurels, turns the green to sere.
Too oft no honors soothe the poet here:
But when his Shade has passed into the Hall
Of Death we hear Fame's trumpet sound through all
The avenues of this terrestrial sphere,
A blare that stirs no more the withered ear,
But makes men pause to list the lofty call
To pay full homage to a slighted name,
And genius long o'erlooked with fire acclaim.
Thus, melancholy, taciturn, forlorn,
Poe went his way through thorns and rocks and sand:
Lo!  Fortune gave him then her empty hand
But for him dead she pours her amplest horn. 

(Text from Masterpieces of the Southern Poets


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