_Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme, En ce nocturne et angoissant domaine? Serai-je seul avec mon orgueil noir, Assis en un fauteuil de haine? Serai-je seul, avec ma pâle hyperdulie, Pour Notre-Dame, la Folie?_ In these poems of self-analysis, which is self-torture, there is something lacerating, and at the same time bewildering, which conveys to one the sense of all that is most solitary, picturesque and poignant in the transformation of an intensely active and keen-sighted reason into a thing of conflicting visionary moods. At times, as in the remarkable study of London called "Les Villes," this fever of the brain looks around it, and becomes a flame of angry and tumultuous epithet, licking up and devouring what is most solid in exterior space. Again, as in "Les Lois" and "Les Nombres," it becomes metaphysical, abstract, and law towers up into a visible palace, number flowers into a forest: _Je suis l'halluciné de la forêt des Nombres._ That art of presenting a thought like a picture, of which Verhaeren is so accomplished a master, has become more subtle than ever; and _ces tours de ronde de l'infini, le soir Et ces courbes, et ces spirales,_ of for the most part menacing speculations in the void, take visible form before us, with a kind of hallucination, communicated to us from that (how far deliberate?) hallucination which has created them. Gradually, in "Les Apparus dans mes Chemins," in "Les Campagnes Hallucinées," in "Les Villages Illusoires," in "Les Villes Tentaculaires," the hallucinations become entirely external: it is now the country, the village, the town, that is to say, the whole organized world, that agonizes among cloudy phantoms, and no longer a mere individual, abnormal brain. And so he has at once gained a certain relief from what had been felt to be too intimately a part of himself, and has also surrendered to a more profound, because a more extended, consciousness of human misery. Effacing himself, as he does, behind the great spectacle of the world, as he sees it, with his visionary eyes, in his own violent and lethargic country, he becomes a more hopeless part of that conspiracy of the earth against what man has built out of the earth, of what man has built out of the earth against the earth, which he sees developing silently among the grass and bricks. All these books are a sort of philosophy in symbols, symbols becoming more and more definite: "Le Donneur de Mauvais Conseils," who drives up to the farm gate: _La vieille carriole en bois vert-pomine Qui l'emmena, on ne sait d'où, Une folle la garda avec son homme Aux carrefours des chemins mous. Le cheval paît l'herbe d'automne, Près d'une mare monotone, Dont l'eau malade réverbère Le soir de pluie et de misère Qui tombe en loques sur la terre_; "Les Cordiers," the old man spinning his rope against the sky, weaving the past into the future: