“It may be that he has sometimes felt for an instant the influence of some contemporary poets, but these have done nothing for him, save to awaken and reveal to him the extreme and painful sensibility which is his whole being. In the main, he is without a master. He moulds language at his will, not, like a great writer because he knows it, but, like a child, because he is ignorant of it. He gives wrong senses to words in his simplicity. Little as we might expect it, this poet, whom his disciples regard as such a consummate artist, writes on occasion (if we may dare to speak out), like a pupil of the technical schools, or a second-rate chemist subject to lyric outbursts. After this, it is amusing to see him while posing as the impeccable artist, the sculptor of strophes, the gentleman who distrusts imagination, write, with the keenest sense of enjoyment:-- “‘_A nous qui ciselons les mots comme des coupes_ _Et qui faisons des vers émus très froidement...._ _Ce qu’il nous faut, à nous, c’est, aux lueurs des lampes,_ _La science conquise et le sommeil dompté._’ Yet this writer, so wanting in ordinary technical skill, has yet written--I cannot tell how--verses of a penetrating sweetness, a languid charm which is peculiarly his own, and which perhaps arises from a union of these things--charm of sound, clearness of feeling, and partial obscurity in the words. Thus, when he tells us that he is dreaming of an unknown woman, who loves him, who understands him, and weeps with him, he adds:-- “‘_Son nom? Je me souviens qu’il est doux et sonore,_ _Comme ceux_ des aimés que la vie exila. _Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,_ _Et pour sa voix lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a_ L’inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.’ “I am also very fond of the _Chanson d’Automne_, though certain words (_blême_ and _suffocant_) are not perhaps used with entire accuracy, and scarcely correspond with the “languor” described just before. “_Les sanglots longs_ _Des violons_ _De l’automne_ _Blessent mon cœur_ _D’une langueur_ _Monotone._ _Tout suffocant_ _Et blême, quand_ _Sonne l’heure,_ _Je me souviens_ _Des jours anciens,_ _Et je pleure._ _Et je m’en vais_ _Au voit mauvais_ _Qui m’emporte_ _De ça, de là,_ _Pareil à la_ _Feuille morte._’ “He celebrates the Virgin in an exceedingly fine hymn:-- “‘_Je ne veux plus aimer que ma mère Marie._ * * * * * _Et, comme j’étais faible et bien méchant encore,_ _Aux mains lâches, les yeux éblouis des chemins,_ _Elle baissa mes yeux, et me joignit les mains_ _Et m’enseigna les mots par lesquels on adore._ * * * * * _Et tous ces bons efforts vers les croix et les claies,_ _Comme je l’invoquais, Elle en ceignit mes reins._’ “His piety inspires him with some very sweet lines:--