Edgar Allen Poe

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….
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 wilder, far diviner visions
Than ever 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
I cannot write – I cannot speak or think
Alas! I cannot 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 purpled vapours, far away
To where the prospect terminates.