Classic Poem

Not for the tales, where magic voices rave
In wizard night through haunted houses drear,
Till the spell makes me half in love with fear;
Not for the weirder art, the rhymèd stave
Wailing of lunar wood, and wan sea-wave,
And lamp, and ghostly bird, and bridal bier,
Lay I these verses, at this hundredth year,
Poe, on the marble of your wintry grave;

But for the unconquerable soul that pain
Nor poverty with forty stripes and odd,
Fire in the throat, nor fever in the brain,
Death in the house, nor calumny abroad,
Could torture from a faith, not held in vain,
With service unto Beauty—unto God.