My intercourse with Moore was mostly at night; that is, when I was not wandering in foreign countries or absorbed in much more animal and passionate affairs. I dedicated to him _Studies in Two Literatures_ 1897; the dedication was written in Rome, which begins: "My dear Moore, Do you remember, at the time when we were both living in the Temple, and our talks used to begin with midnight, and go on until the first glimmerings of dawn shivered among the trees, yours and mine; do you remember how often we have discussed, well, I suppose, everything which I speak of in these studies in the two literatures which we both chiefly care about." It ends: "I think of our conversations now in Rome, where, as in those old times in the Temple, I still look out of my window on a fountain in a square; only, here, I have the Pantheon to look at, on the other side of my fountain." George Moore, whose _Pagan Poems_ were a mixture of atrociously rhymed sensations, abnormal and monstrous, decadent and depraved, not without a sense of luxury and of color, and yet nothing more than feverish fancies and delirious dreams, has in some way fashioned a French sonnet which is an evident imitation of Mallarmé's. Only, between these writers is, as it were, an abyss. It has been Mallarmé's distinction to have always aspired after an impossible liberation of the soul of literature from what is fretting and constraining in "the body of that death" which is the mere literature of words. Finally come his "last period"--after the jewels of Hérodiade, which scattered and recaptured sudden fire,--in which his spirit wandered in an opaque darkness; as for instance, in the sonnet, made miraculously out of the repetition of two rhymes--"onyx lampadophore"--or, by preference, one that begins: _Une dentelle s'abolit._ Here, then, is Moore's sonnet to Edouard Dujardin. _La chair est bonne de l'alose Plus fine que celle du bar, Mais la Loire est loin et je n'ose Abandonner Pierre Abélard._ _Je suis un esclave de l'art; La sage Héloise se pose Sans robe, sans coiffe et sans fard, Et j'oublie aisément l'alose._ _Mais je vois la claire maison-- Arbres, pelouses et statue. Du jardin, j'entend ta leçon:_ _Raison qui sauve, foi qui tue, Autels éclabousses du son Que verse une idole abattue._