The characteristic word of Verhaeren's poetry is _halluciné_. The word leaps from page to page. An entire collection, the _Campagnes hallucinées_ has not freed him from this obsession. Exorcism was not possible, for it is the nature and very essence of Verhaeren to be the hallucinated poet. "Sensations," Taine said, "are true hallucinations." But where does truth begin or end? Who shall dare circumscribe it? The poet, with no psychological scruples, wastes no time over troubling himself to divide hallucinations into truths or untruths. For him they are all true if they are sharp and strong, and he recounts them frankly--and when the recitation is made by Verhaeren, it is very lovely. Beauty in art is a relative result which is achieved by the mixture of very different elements, often the most unexpected. Of these elements, one alone is stable and permanent, and ought to be found in all combinations: that is novelty. A work of art must be new, and we recognize it as such quite simply by the fact that it gives a sensation not yet experienced. If it does not give this, a work, perfect though it be adjudged, is everything that is contemptible. It is useless and ugly, since nothing is more absolutely useful than beauty. With Verhaeren, beauty is made of novelty and strength. This poet is a strong man and, since those _Villes tentaculaires_ which surged with the violence of a telluric upheaval, no one dares to deny him the state and glory of a great poet. Perhaps he has not yet quite finished the magic instrument which for twenty years he has been forging. Perhaps he is not yet master of his language. He is unequal; he lets his most beautiful pages grow heavy with inopportune epithets, and his finest poems become entangled in what was once called prosaism. Nevertheless, the impression of power and grandeur remains, and yes: he is a great poet. Listen to this fragment from _Cathédrales_: * * * * * --O ces foules, ces foules Et la misère et la détresse qui les foulent Comme des houles! Les ostensoirs, ornés de soie, Vers les villes échafaudées, En toits de verre et de cristal, Du haut du choeur sacerdotal, Tendent la croix des gothiques idées. Ils s'imposent dans l'or des clairs dimanches --Toussaint, Noël, Pâques et Pentecôtes blanches. Ils s'imposent dans l'or et dans l'encens et dans la fête Du grand orgue battant du vol de ses tempêtes Les chapiteaux rouges et les voûtes vermeilles, Ils sont une âme, en du soldi, Qui vit de vieux décor et d'antique mystère Autoritaire. Pourtant, dès que s'éteignent le cantique Et l'antienne naïve et prismatique, Un deuil d'encens évaporé s'empreint Sur les trépieds d'argent et les autels d'airain,