Edgar Allan Poe speaks directly to Science, treating it like a ruthless god. He calls it the daughter of time, forever changing things with its prying eyes, and asks why it must prey on the poet’s heart like a vulture whose wings are nothing but dull facts. The poet once wandered freely, chasing wonders in the star-filled skies with bold, fearless flight—but Science won’t let him dream.
He fires off a series of bitter questions: haven’t you yanked Diana from her moonlit chariot? Haven’t you chased the tree-nymph from her forest, and forced the water-spirit out of her stream? You’ve torn elves from the grass, and, in the most personal blow, stolen from me the drowsy summer dream I had beneath the tamarind tree. The poem is a lament for a world stripped of myth and mystery. The mood is wounded and elegiac—a grieving shout against the cold, factual mind that leaves no room for imagination.