Edgar Allan Poe

(on the anniversary of his death)

It was many and many a year gone by,
More than a century ago,
That a poet then lived whom was known by
The name of Edgar Allan Poe;
And this poet he lived with fanciful thoughts
Of lost love and where it did go.

I was a child and he was well chilled
In his graveyard long ago,
But I thrilled with a thrill almost as chill
As words by Edgar Allan Poe.
With the skill that Calliope had instilled,
Tingles would through me flow.

This may be the reason, way back then,
In my bedroom so long ago,
With pen and paper in privacy,
I aped Edgar Allan Poe;
So I hid my poetry away
And thought none would ever know,
Of my shallow flights of fantasy
Where my dreams often go.

The angels, too bored in Heaven above,
Envied the talented Poe --
Yes! -- that is the reason (as we now see
In a life so filled with woe)
That nightmares came out of his dreams at night,
Plaguing and breaking Edgar Allan Poe.

But his voice it was stronger by far than the voice
Of those who lived longer than he --
Of many more clever than me --
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons way down deep below
Can ever endeavor to take the wonders
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.

For the pages ever turn lighting the tales to burn
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.
And the bells ever peal, but the pulse we feel
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.
And so, I may tonight, by my screen’s glowing light,
From my mentor -- my fair Poe - get a chilling fright,
In his legacy there in the glow
In the depth of Death’s lasting shadow.