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An Enigma (1848)

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, 
  "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. 
Through all the flimsy things we see at once 
  As easily as through a Naples bonnet- 
  Trash of all trash!- how can a lady don it? 
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff- 
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff 
  Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." 
And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
The general tuckermanities are arrant 
Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparent- 
  But this is, now- you may depend upon it- 
Stable, opaque, immortal- all by dint 
Of the dear names that he concealed within't.

Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

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