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- 1848
- AN ENIGMA
- by Edgar Allan Poe
-
- "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
- "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
- Through all the flimsy things we see at once
- As easily as through a Naples bonnet-
- Trash of all trash!- how can a lady don it?
- Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
- Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
- Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
- And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
- The general tuckermanities are arrant
- Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparent-
- But this is, now- you may depend upon it-
- Stable, opaque, immortal- all by dint
- Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.
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- -THE END-
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