Edgar Allan Poe

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

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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.

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To the glory that was Greco

And the grandeur that was Roma