For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!— they hold a treasure
    Divine— a talisman— an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure—
    The words— the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
    Of poets, by poets— as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
    Like the knight Pinto— Mendez Ferdinando—
Still form a synonym for Truth— Cease trying!
    You will not read the riddle,
       though you do the best you can do.

-The End-

[This valentine was written for Frances Sargent Osgood. Mrs. Osgood's full name is spelled with one letter on each line, the first letter of the first line ("F"), the second letter of the second line ("r"), the third letter of the third line ("a"), etc. In the original version (below), Poe accidentally mispelled her middle name as "Sergeant," here corrected. In the editorials section of this issue of the magazine appears this brief note: "The Valentine by EDGAR A. POE, will, we venture to predict, make as many guessers as readers of his most provoking riddle" ]
(note from http://www.eapoe.org/)

For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes,
    Brightly expressive as the starts of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies
    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly these words, which hold a treasure
    Divine — a talisman, an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure —
    The words — the letters themselves. Do not forget
The smallest point, or you may lose your labor.
    And yet there is in this no gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre
    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Upon the open page on which are peering
    Such sweet eyes now, there lies, I say, perdus,
A musical name oft uttered in the hearing
    Of poets, by poets — for the name is a poet's too.
In common sequence set, the letters lying,
    Compose a sound delighting all to hear —
Ah, this you'd have no trouble in descrying
    Were you not something, of a dunce, my dear —
And now I leave these riddles to their Seer.

-The End-

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