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An Enigma By Edgar Allan Poe |
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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. 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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