To you, no queen of tragedy,
But the humble minstrel of this art,
I must apportion some of time’s excess
Of power, of glory and of light.

From out the hollow spheres of blackness
In which I weep, and have my being,
I burn and bring the naked torches forth
Which light the caverns of your darkness.

For this moment, till the rising surge
Of the great tides of pestilential seas
Sweep you out on the ill-proven wastes
Of the final, everlasting shores.

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