Poe originally published this poem in 1829 in [b:Tamerlane and Other Poems|8598142|Tamerlane and Other Poems|Edgar Allan Poe|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1387751132s/8598142.jpg|13467927] (50 copies printed) authored by "A Bostonian." The poem had 406 lines on publication. In 1845, it was republished sans endnotes with only 234 lines. So naturally I was looking for an example of lost/nearly lost literature. But, having read it, I suspect Poe probably edited it down himself; the first half of the original poem is flat as flat can be. There is some lovely poetry in here, though.

This stood out to me:

The world — its joy — its share of pain
Which I felt not — its bodied forms
Of varied being, which contain
The bodiless spirits of the storms,
The sunshine, and the calm — the ideal
And fleeting vanities of dreams,
Fearfully beautiful! the real
Nothings of mid-day waking life —
Of an enchanted life, which seems,
Now as I look back, the strife
Of some ill demon, with a power
Which left me in an evil hour,
All that I felt, or saw, or thought,
Crowding, confused became
(With thine unearthly beauty fraught)
Thou — and the nothing of a name.

And this:

‘Tis thus when the lovely summer sun
Of our boyhood, his course hath run:
For all we live to know — is known;
And all we seek to keep — hath flown;
With the noon-day beauty, which is all.
Let life, then, as the day-flow’r, fall —
The trancient, passionate day-flow’r,
Withering at the ev’ning hour.

But then the last stanza just does not work for me. The idea is there, but the language fails. Ah, well. It's Poe. It's hard to complain.

Read online at: http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/tamerlna.htm ( )