“Get thee back to Sampson Low’s, or your own Atlantic shore,
Leave no proof-sheet as a token of the lie that you have spoken,
Leave my glory still unbroken, take that bust without my door,
Take thy book from off the press, and that bust without my door.”
Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”
And that Yankee never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting,
With the pallid bust of Bacon to and from his printer’s door,
And his tale has all the seeming of a madman who is dreaming,
And the Crypto o’er him streaming, holds him wriggling on the floor
And his book from out that Crypto wriggling with him on the floor