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 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 enpurpled vapors, far away

To where the prospect terminates—thee only.

(1848)