I cannot frame the fire of Beauty's song,
The distant crawling notes of wingless birds;
A fiery spirit fiercely burns my tongue:
I speak, it dies, and ashes are all my words.
I am a faulty artist, speaking vain
Vague mutterings out of my mute heart;
Divinity mere words can not attain,
For you, my dearest, are my soul's sought art.
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I would like to translate this poem