The theatre is still, and Duse speaks. <br />What charm possesses all, <br />And what a bloom let fall <br />On parted lips, and eyes, and flushing cheeks! <br />The flattering whisper and the trivial word <br />No longer heard, <br />The hearts of women listen, deeply stirred. <br />For now to each those quivering accents seem <br />A secret telling for her ear alone: <br />The child sits wondering in a world foreknown, <br />And the old nod their heads with springing tear, <br />Confirming true that acted dream. <br />And the soul of each to itself revealed <br />Feels to the voice a voice reply, <br />With a leaping wonder, a joy, a fear, <br />It is I, it is I! <br />But O what radiant mirror is this that dazzles me, <br />That my dead rapture holds, <br />That all my joy unfolds, <br />That sets my longing free, <br />My sighs renumbers, my old hope renews? <br />I have lived in a sleep, I have tasted alien bread, <br />I have spoken the speech, and worn the robes of the dead; <br />I have buried my heart away, and none believed. <br />But now, speak on, and my bonds untie: <br />At last, it is I, it is I!<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eleonora-duse-as-magda/
