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“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.
[[v]]
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 lie concealed within ’t.
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Notes:
None.
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[S:0 - SW94, 1895] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - An Enigma (Stedman and Woodberry, 1895)