35 lines
1.5 KiB
Plaintext
35 lines
1.5 KiB
Plaintext
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1829
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TO -- --
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by Edgar Allan Poe
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Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
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In the mad pride of intellectuality,
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Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever
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A thought arose within the human brain
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Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
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And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
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Two words- two foreign soft dissyllables-
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Italian tones, made only to be murmured
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By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
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That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"
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Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
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Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
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Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
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Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
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(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
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Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
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The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
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With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
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I cannot write- I cannot speak or think-
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Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
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This standing motionless upon the golden
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Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.
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Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
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And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
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Upon the left, and all the way along,
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Amid empurpled vapors, far away
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To where the prospect terminates- thee only.
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-THE END-
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