s
that hang over the Seine between the Pont Neuf and the Quai
Voltaire--whirling lightly and softly down, till it touches the flowing
water and is borne away--each of these delicate filmy verses of his
falls upon our consciousness; draws up from the depths its strange
indescribable response; and is lost in the shadows.

One is persuaded by the poetry of Verlaine that the loveliest things
are the most evasive things, the things which come most lightly and
pass most swiftly. One realises from his poetry that the rarest
intimations of life's profound secret are just those that can only be
expressed in hints, in gestures, in whispers, in airy touches and
fleeting signs.

One comes to understand from it that the soul of poetry is and was
and must always be no other thing than _music_--music not merely
of the superficial sound of words, but of those deeper significances
and those vaguer associations which words carry with them; music
of the hidden spirit of words, the spirit which originally called them
forth from the void and made them vehicles for the inchoate
movements of man's unuttered dreams.

Paul Verlaine--and not without reason--became a legend even while
he lived; and now that he is dead he has become more than a legend.
A legend and a symbol! Wherever the spirit of art finds itself
misunderstood, mistrusted, disavowed, disinherited; driven into the
taverns by the stupidity of those who dwell in "homes," and into the
arms of the submerged by the coldness and heartlessness of those
who walk prosperously upon the surface; the figure of this fantastic
child, this satyr-saint with the Socratic forehead, this tearful
mummer among the armies of the outcasts, will rise up and write his
prophecy upon the wall.

For the kingdom of art is as the kingdom of heaven. The clever ones,
the wise ones, the shrewd ones, the ones that make themselves
friends with Mammon, and build themselves houses of pleasure for
their habitation, shall pass away and be forgotten forever.

The justice of the gods cancels the malice of the righteous, and the
devoted gratitude of humanity tears up the contemptuous libels of
the world.

He has come into his own, as all great poets must at last, in defiance
of the puritan, in defiance of public opinion, and in spite of all
aspersion. He has come into his own; and no one who loves poetry
can afford to pass him by.

For while others may be more witty, more learned, more elaborate,
none can be mo