Within prose, as within verse, it does come back, it insists. Boisterous, worsened by our times, willing to do battle. Yet more embryonic than sublime. Ready to guise itself within its contraries, i.e. the vulgar and the prosaic. Bitten by irony, a scoundrel, it is often equivocal and ready to go astray.
Lyricism is open to all kinds of dissensions.
One may say to all embezzlements. Within both its excesses and lures, lyricism is the name given to an illness of speech, the name given to that onto which poetry grounds itself and which it should resist to, of that for which it tries to find a way out, of what which, without it, it would remain unheeded. The soaring is humbled. The heart too. And the poet, now back on hearth, is more than ever limping in the here below.