it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Ruin comes surely as ruin may come
With no less than a cheerful face
Though all be lost without a trace
And where now is the fortunate son
The one to whom they can turn
To escape depredation's cold burn?
Locked up in his tower across the sea
On Brasil he waits with what eyes?
Looks he east that he may too rise?
Or west across sunset lit lea?
He has risen indeed, driftwood man
As high as a beggared soul can
Beggared in his great manse
Having dove into the sea's wide arms
With all of his treasures and charms
And rises with each wave's expanse
And calls out broad to his fellows
But his breath in the wind's loud bellows
Comes out less than any man's voice
A hundred and forty letters in length
And still! And still in their strength
They stare in their world of Choice
But see only as far as the waves
Tir na Nog! Or are they but graves?
And find lost Brasil instead
They are tired of making men fit
They but only can force him to sit
And wish, wish they could die -- instead
Old Usher, did he despair
Did he stumble at the first stair
Was the sea but a swampy ground?
The wilderness made with man's hand
It does not fall, for it does not stand
And look! Look at the vision we've found
The tower is sinking, and we are struck dumb
Ruin comes as surely as ruin may come.

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