Edgar Poe waxed full of woe
He sang a song of sadness
He filled his days with minstrel rays
His nights bore down to madness
Take this kiss upon thy brow
And in parting from me now
This much more let me avow:
You are wrong should you not deem
All my days to be a dream.
Yet if hope is flown away
In a night or in a day
In a vision or yet none
Is it thereby less the gone?
All we see or seem to see
Is a dream within a dream.
To the glory that was Greco
And the grandeur that was Roma
Keech Ballard 