Where the poet lay in his dying
while the secret eyes hidden and spying
comes a pilgrim his face in hiding
and his spirit with the poet vying
for communion with departed muse
of tales macabre, in that profuse,
from the master and confirmed recluse.
Or he, perhaps, only bids adieux.
With three flowers of rose and liqueur
while the darkness keeps his face secure
and the watchers watch within the nave
a visitor lingers at the grave.
Of what do they speak if thus they do?
Of misfortune, or a devil’s brew?
Would a tell-tale heart give up a clue?
“A mystery all insoluble.”
They may talk of lady Eleanor
at a graveside visit in Baltimore
or life, red death, or House at war
but thus quoth the raven, nevermore.