The title thus bids me speak
of dark and gloomy superstitions
bloody skulls, mystery apparitions;
On which the poet cannot
pretend to throw expert light;
In knowing this I am strong-
what I write cannot be right,
cannot be wrong.
With certainity I can only say
the moment great science is revealed
[for there is romance only
in the uncertain, the non-existent or the forgotten]
the poetry in death will be dead;
So pitiful poem, the time will come
and when it does, may you rest in poetic Pace.
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