Poe: To — —

A poem.

Publisher’s Note: If you missed the news, I’m leaving Substack and closing down Edgar Allan Poe Fortnightly at the end of the month. This week, please enjoy a handful of poems that I haven’t shared yet.

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To — — (renamed To Marie Louise in later printings)

Edgar Allan Poe

First published in 1829

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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.

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The Final Month of Edgar Allan Poe Fortnightly:

This week: a selection of poems.

The week of 01/22: The Purloined Letter

01/29: a final poem.

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