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Now things daily fail, wit droops downward,
and eloquence evaporates before the dark—
where oh where is our poet of sweet majestic rhythm
with a philosophy that satisfies the intellect?
A mind adorning logic with imagery picturesque;
of metaphor and simile as suggestions to luminous effect—
someone disposed to clothe ideas in most splendid dress,
standing as saving grace towards a liberation’s truth—
an ear fine for its meter, imaginative and soothing in affect,
a vision delivered with pathos in the manner of artists,
speaking after prophets;
someone for when it’s impossible
to rewrite history we already know,
to compose light we still must learn.
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