On Hearing She Had Been Praised in the Journals
Rachel Luzzatto Morpurgo
1847
My soul sighs, fate brings only trouble.
My spirit was lifted, and I grew bold.
I heard a voice: ‘Your poem is gold.
Who has learned to sing like you, Rachel?’
My spirit in turn replies: I’ve lost my savor.
Exile after exile has soured my skin.
My taste has faded, my vineyard long grown thin.
For fear of shame, now, I sing no longer.
I’ve…
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