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Edgar Allan Poe / Remi Labarre | My spells.. / I miei incantesimi.., 1848



To Marie Louise (Shew), 1848

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"-
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wider, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures")
Could hope to utter. And I!


My spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I can not write-I can not speak or think-
Alas, I can not feel; for ‘tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold 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,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates-thee only!


I miei incantesimi sono infranti.
La penna mi cade,
impotente,
dalla mano tremante.
Se il mio libro é il tuo caro nome,
per quanto mi preghi,
non posso più scrivere.
Non posso pensare,
né parlare,
ahimè non posso sentire più nulla,
poiché non é nemmeno un'emozione,
questo immobile arrestarsi sulla dorata
soglia del cancello spalancato dei sogni,
fissando in estasi lo splendido scorcio,
e fremendo nel vedere,
a destra e a sinistra,
e per tutto il viale,
fra purpurei vapori,
lontano dove termina il panorama
nient'altro che te...



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