One of the line in Edgar Allan Poe stories

Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of

cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of

cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

Tese were days when my heart was

volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As

the lavas that restlessly roll Teir sulphurous

currents down Yaanek, In the ultimate

climes of the Pole— Tat groan as they roll

down Mount Yaanek, In the realms of the

Boreal Pole.

If this were Edward Lear, poet of “Te

Dong with the Luminous Nose” or “Te

Jumblies,” one might not question

Baudelaire and the other apostles of French

Poe. But the hard-driven Poe did not set

out to write nonsense verse. His desire was

to be the American Coleridge or Byron or

Shelley, and his poetry, at its rare best,

echoes those High Romantic forerunners

with some grace and a certain plangen