"Gli occhi di ch' io parlai."
Those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose,
The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile
Could my own soul from its own self beguile,
And in a separate world of dreams enclose,
The hair's bright tresses, full of golden glows,
And the soft lightning of the angelic smile
That changed this earth to some celestial isle,
Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows.
And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn,
Left dark without the light I loved in vain,
Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn;
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain.
"And yet I live!" What a pause is implied before these words! the
drawing of a long breath, immeasurably long; like that vast interval of
heart-beats that precedes Shakespeare's "Since Cleopatra died." I can
think of no other passage in literature that has in it the same wide
spaces of emotion.
The following sonnet seems to me the most stately and concentrated in
the whole volume. It is the sublimity of a despair not to be relieved
by utterance.