Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one

Hear the words of John Denham, poet of the seventeenth century, who declared: “Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.” In this utterance he gives voice to an ancient lament: that poetry, like incense rising in the temple, is fragile, fleeting, and bound to the tongue that gave it birth. For while ideas may travel across borders with ease, the soul of poetry is delicate, and when carried from one language into another, it risks losing its fragrance, its rhythm, its secret fire.

For what is poetry, if not music in words? It depends not only on meaning but on sound, cadence, and form. Translate a story, and its truth remains. Translate a commandment, and its force abides. But translate a poem, and something slips away—the music of syllables, the hidden echoes of rhyme, the subtle dance of rhythm. These are not ornaments but the very life of the poem. Denham saw this truth, that the spirit of poetry is so fine, so intangible, that the act of translation is like trying to carry perfume in the palm of your hand: it will inevitably evaporate.

Consider the great example of Homer’s epics, carried into countless tongues. The Iliad in Greek beats with the rhythm of dactylic hexameter, a meter alien to English ears. Translators have tried—some choosing literal accuracy, others chasing music—but none can capture the whole. Each version is but a shadow of the original flame. Or think of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat, brought into English by Edward FitzGerald. The translation enchanted millions, but scholars confess it is as much FitzGerald’s creation as Khayyam’s. Thus, we see the paradox: translation gives poetry new life, yet the original essence slips away, a ghost of what once was.

Yet we must not despair at this truth. For even if the spirit evaporates, something remains: an echo, a reflection, a trace that still has power. When Chinese poets like Li Bai are rendered into English, their mountain mists and moonlit rivers still touch us, though dimly. When Dante’s Divine Comedy crosses into other tongues, its theology and vision endure, though the exact music of terza rima is lost. Poetry, even wounded by translation, still reaches across centuries and continents to stir hearts. Denham’s warning, then, is not to dismiss translation, but to approach it with humility, knowing that some part of the mystery cannot be carried over.

This truth teaches us reverence. When we read poetry in translation, we must remember we are hearing not the original voice but an echo. Let us honor the translators who labor to keep the spirit alive, but let us also, if we can, seek the source. For to hear Dante in Italian, or Rumi in Persian, or Bash? in Japanese, is to taste the wine before it has been poured into another vessel. The soul of the poet is most alive in his own tongue, and to encounter it there is to glimpse the undimmed fire.

Therefore, O seekers, the lesson is clear: treasure the subtlety of poetry. Do not treat it as mere content to be shifted from one shape to another, but as a living spirit, fragile and divine. When you read in translation, do so with gratitude but also with awareness, knowing you are gazing at the reflection of the moon in water, not the moon itself. And if you are blessed to learn another language, seek out its poets in their true voices. For each language is a world, and its poetry is the song of that world’s soul.

Thus, remember the teaching of Denham: poetry is a spirit, delicate as breath, luminous as flame. Handle it with care, honor it in its native tongue, and when it must be carried into another, receive it with humility, knowing that some part will vanish like vapor in the air. Yet even that vapor may still refresh the heart. For poetry, even in fragments, is enough to awaken the soul.