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The hour is not for poetry. The hour is for poets.
“Ofttimes I have this strange and penetrating dream: An unknown woman whom I love and who loves me, And who, though never changing, ever seems to be Another — in whose eyes I see a well known gleam.
She understands. My heart that doth transparent seem For her alone, alas, ceases also to be For her, alone, a problem; and her tears fall free Upon my pallid brow, refreshing as a stream.
Brunette, or blonde, or Titian-haired? I do not know! Her name? 'Twas sweet I well recall when spoken low, As sweet as those beloved ones by Life exiled.
Her glance is that of statues — looks that vaguely thrill — And for her voice — calm, faintly sounding, gravely mild, It hath the echo of dear voices long since still *.”
To all those who preserve the voice of Humankind.
And to those who are made to fall silent.
To suspended time.
*Translation by Bergen Weeks Applegate, “My Familiar Dream” in Paul Verlaine: His Absinthe-Tinted Song (1916)
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