ing!

A perfect line of verse is absolute, immutable, deathless. It encloses a
thought as within a clearly marked circle which no force can break; it
belongs no more to the poet, it belongs to all and yet to none, as do
space, light, all things intransitory and perpetual. When the poet is
about to bring forth one of these deathless lines he is warned by a
divine torrent of joy which sweeps over his soul.

Andrea half closed his eyes to prolong this delicious tremor which with
him was ever the forerunner of inspiration, and more especially of
poetic inspiration, and he determined in a moment upon the metrical form
into which he would pour his thoughts, like wine into a cup--the sonnet.

While composing Andrea studied himself curiously. It was long since he
had made verses. Had this interval of idleness been harmful to his
technical capacities? It seemed to him that the lines, rising one by one
out of the depths of his brain, had a new grace. The consonance came of
itself, and ideas were born of the rhymes. Then suddenly some obstacle
would intercept the flow, a line would rebel and the whole verse would
be displaced like a shaken puzzle; the syllables would struggle against
the constraint of the measure; a musical and luminous word which had
taken his fancy had to be excluded by the severity of the rhythm, do
what he would to retain it, and the verse was like a medal which has
turned out imperfect through the inexperience of the caster, who has not
calculated the proper quantity of metal necessary for filling the mould.
With ingenious patience he poured the metal back into the crucible and
began all over again. Finally the verse came out full and clear, and the
whole sonnet lived and breathed like a free and perfect creature.

Thus he composed--now slow, now fast--with a delight never felt before.
As the day grew, the sea cast luminous darts between the trees as
between the columns of a jasper portico. Here Alma Tadema would have
depicted a Sappho with hyacinthine locks, seated at the foot of the
marble Hermes, singing to a seven-stringed lyre and surrounded by a
chorus of maidens with locks of flame, all pallid and intent, drinking
in the pure harmony of the verses.

Having accomplished the four sonnets, he heaved a sigh and proceeded to
recite them silently but with inward emphasis. Then he wrote them on the
quadrangular pedestal of the Hermes, one on each surface in the
following order--

I

'Four-fronte