How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
I.
In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.
II.
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever سے طرف کی the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With مزید of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - یا is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?
III.
Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
Each گھنٹہ before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token -
IV.
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty سے طرف کی our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn سے طرف کی their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
I.
In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.
II.
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever سے طرف کی the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With مزید of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - یا is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?
III.
Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
Each گھنٹہ before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token -
IV.
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty سے طرف کی our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn سے طرف کی their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
تلاش narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. تلاش well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, یا آپ may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, سے طرف کی poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
آپ will not read the riddle, though آپ do the best آپ can do.
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
تلاش narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. تلاش well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, یا آپ may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, سے طرف کی poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
آپ will not read the riddle, though آپ do the best آپ can do.
In 1949, like about a week before he died, he was supposed to take atrain in Baltimore for going to Philadelphia. That`s what history knows. After that it`s a mystery. Some people (And myself) believe that he went to a bar and he got drunk, with this it is believed that he was taken to vote for some elections and then dropped in the streat. This was a common way of faking the elections in that time. But, still, I can`t really say how he day. All I know is that, five days after he was supposed to take that train, he appeared in the streat and he was taken to the hospital. The doctor was a friend of him. And then October 7th, he died. Miserable, poor and having hallusinations, our loving Edgar died and nobody in his family یا دوستوں (he had a grandmother ) knew it. He died alone. Tragic isn`t it?
