The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1895-03-31

of his life his exquisite verse cannot but
incite to wonder. Whether one reads the
. somewhat schooled, but unmistakably
poetic words OF his brilliant and promising
youth, the plaintive beauty into which his
later genius wove the musical cadences of
the French language, or the passionate,
esthetical, mystic religious eCstasies of his
latest verse, the impression is always the
same-the soul there speaking is the soul
OF poet; poet, too, with a marvellous
power over the language in which he
works.
In his impressions and Opinions"
George Moore has given US terrible
glimpse OF this poet. He says:
II once saw Verlaine. 1 shall not forget
the glare of the bold, prominent forehead,
the cavernous eyes, the macabre express
sion OF burnt-out lust smoldering upon
his face"
Here is his description of how they
reached the poets home in Paris: 1--WE
got into an omnibus and then we got into
train. Then we took cab, and l believe
we had to take another train. We at last
penetrated into dim and eccentric region
that [ had never heard of before; we
traverSed curious streets. 4 We
penetrated musty-smelling and clamorous
courtyards, in which fingered Balzacian
concierges; we climbed slippery staircases
upon which doors stood wide open. 4 X
In dark corner, at the end of a narrow
flight of stairs we discovered a door. We
Knocked. A voice made itself heard We
entered and saw Verlaine. The terrible
forehead, bald and prominent, was half
covered by a filthy nightcap. and night
SHIRT full of the grease of the bed covered
his shoulders; stained and discolored
pair of trousers were hitched up somehow
;Fbout his waist. He was drinking wine at
is sous the litre. He told US that he had
just come out of the hospital; that his leg
was better, but it still gave him great
deal of pain
sonnet, which the poet had promised the
latter. Verlaine was working upon it, and
he told them IN the groSsest language the
denominations which he had included in it,
They went away in despair. The sonnet
received next day, was one of exquisite and
lofty beauty.
That is the mystery-the wonder of this
mysterious and wonderful man. He is
purely poet. purely an esthete in impulse,
in thought, in expression. He has ap-
parently sounded the height, the depth of
religious feeling, yet his life, his surround
ings, his conversation are such that the
interest glimpse sutices-the merest glimpse
is all that is possible to be borne
To afford glimpse of the mans thought
we give the following (purposely) literal
translation OF one of his sonnets. No
translation, literal or otherwise, can give
the exquisite cadence of the original
God said to me: My son, thou must love me; thou
seeSt
My pierced side, my heart beaming and bleeding,
And my offended feet that Madeline bathed
With tears, and my arms aching under the weight
OF thy sins and my hands, nd thou seest the cross
Thou seest the nails, the gall, The sponge-and ali
teach thee
To love, in this bitter world where flesh reigns.
Only my flesh and my blood my word and my voice.
Did not love thee unto death?
oh, my brother in my Father; oh, my son in the
Spirit;
And have not suffered, as it was written?
Have not groaned in that supreme anguish?
Have not sweat out the sweat of the night?
SOrrOMful friend. who SpelSpsi M @ hnra /