I see his book of poetry
Master poet of bygone years
And from his grave he speaks to me
With inaudible words quite clear.
I reach for Poe and read Lenore:
“Ah, broken is the golden bowl”
You must “weep now or never more! ”
I knew her not till now, poor soul!
But I’ll recite a monody
of youth, death and slanderous tongues
with intonated prosody
for this youth that died so young.
Comments about this poem (Lenore by Albert Ahearn )
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