To Marie Louise (Shew)

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained "the power of words"--denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond the utterance of the human tongue:5And now, as if in mockery of that boast,Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--Italian tones, made only to be murmuredBy angels dreaming in the moonlit "dewThat hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--10Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,Richer, far wilder, far diviner visionsThan even the seraph harper, Israfel,(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")15Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,20This standing motionless upon the goldenThreshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,And thrilling as I see, upon the right,Upon the left, and all the way along,25Amid empurpled vapors, far awayTo where the prospect terminates--thee only!