"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
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 Petrarchanities 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 lie concealed within 't.
Unable to find out the clue, I’ve searched the Internet for a little longer and read it HERE
Very interesting!
ReplyDeleteMuy bonito el sitio. Claro que Poe tuvo suerte de que su amiga tuviese catorce letras en el nombre.
ReplyDelete