1849

Bronx: Poe Park.

EDGAR ALLAN POE. (Died Oct. 7, 1849.) Hear the tolling of the bells— Death bells! What a strain of tragedy! Eider harsh instance knelling! "He is dead!" rings seem to say, "And Poe rests endless clay in Is forgotten. Is forgotten; in forgotten ere it's cold. He is dead, dead, dead! And there's none will shed a tear. Never fear! There are none with a tear. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! How each one seems awash with predication. Every echo and vibration, With a broken culmination, Seems to hover in the air. Seems to hover everywhere, Seems in derision. "He is dead, dead, dead!" sing the bells. Foolish bells, lying bells: Hear the pealing of the bells— Joyous bells! What a tale of ecstasy their haunting tells: "He is gone!" So they seem to say, "House seem to sing. 'Tis man we celebrate today. "He is long years dead, ye cry? Cause your clatter, fine people. Sing a the only thing steeple. It is only fools that die! Every echo seems to call him. The man we celebrate today And the grave deepens ever deeper. Hear the peal ever deeper, as it penetrates the tomb. As it filters through the gloom And his spirit wraps the spirit of his bride. "I am his bride! Young she died! And his broken heart was buried at her side. So, together in the silence of the tomb, They lie, side by side, in that narrow, narrow room. Hear the bells, the bells, the bells, To the jibes, mocking laughter of the bells. VILDA SAUVAGE OWENS.

Photo from the New York Public Library - Milstein Collection