There is no denying the beneficial influence of the Parnassians upon the expressive powers of the Brazilian poets. The refinement of style mirrored a refinement of the thought. If I stress the difference between the French and the Brazilian Parnassians it is not alone to emphasize the partial inability of the latter to imitate the foreign models, but to show how genuine personality must triumph over group affiliations. Raymundo Correia was such a personality; his sensibility was too responsive for complete surrender to formula. One of his sonnets long enjoyed the reputation of being the most popular ever penned in his country: AS POMBAS Vae-se a primeira pomba despertada.… Vae-se outra mais … mais outra … enfin dezenas De pombas vão-se dos pombaes, apenas Raia, sanguinea e fresca, a madrugada. E á tarde, quando a rigida nortada Sopra, aos pombaes de novo ellas serenas, Ruflando as azas, sacudindo as pennas, Voltam todas em bando e em revoada. Tambem dos corações, onde, abotoam, Os sonhos, um por um, celeres vôam, Como vôam as pombas dos pombaes. No azul da adolescencia as azas soltam, Fogem … mas aos pombaes as pombas voltam, E elles aos corações não voltam mais.…[9] This is the more yearnful voice of Raymundo Correia’s muse, who knows, too, the futility of rebellion against “God, who cruelly creates us for grief; God, who created us and who was not created.” This conception of universal grief is his central theme, and it is significant that when Carvalho seeks spiritual analogies he goes--to Parnassians? No. To Leopardi, to Byron, to Pushkin, to Buddha. Alberto de Oliveira, genuine artist that he was--and it was the fashion at one time for the Brazilian poets, under Parnassian influence, to call themselves artists rather than poets--maintained his personality through all his labours. Like a true Brazilian, he renders homage to the surrounding scene and even his sadness is several parts softness. In the manner of the day he wrote many a sonnet of pure description, but this represents restraint rather than predilection, for at other times, as in his _Volupia_, he bursts out in a nostalgia for love that proves his possession of it even at the moment of his denial. Fico a ver que tudo ama. E eu não amo, eu sómente! Ama este chão que piso, a arvore a que me encosto, Esta aragem subtil que vem roçar-me o rosto, Estas azas que no ar zumbem, esta folhagem, As féras que no cio o seu antro selvagem Deixam por ver a luz que as magnetiza, os broncos Penhascaes do deserto, o rio, a selva, os troncos, E os ninhos, e a ave, a folha, e a flor, e o fructo, e o ramo.… E eu só não amo! eu so não amo! eu so não amo![10]