An Enigma by Edgar Allan Poe

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"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 lie concealed within't.

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