Tamerlane Edgar Allan Poe

Kind solace in a dying hour!—
        Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
                Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
                Unearthly pride hath revell'd in—
        I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope—Oh god! I can—
        Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,

        But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
        Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
        Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again—
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.