To Edgar Allan Poe

If thy sad heart, pining for human love, In its earth solitude grew dark with fear, Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should prove Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere Wherein thy spirit wandered,—if the flowers That pressed around thy feet, seemed but to bloom In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours, When all who loved had left thee to thy doom,— Oh, yet believe that in that hollow vale Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail To lift its burden of remorseful pain, My soul shall meet thee, and its Heaven forego Till God's great love, on both, one hope, one Heaven bestow.