The New York herald., 1921-02-13
BY PANAME.

of our day has put more of her living
self into her lines than the Countess
de Noailles. Mile. Madeleine Roch is
to read from her works at the next
Gals.
In the French theatre drama and
poetry have lived in close union
through centuries. 1t is the purpose
Of the poetic matinees inaugurated
this winter in Paris to emphasize the
distinction ofethe art of verse apart
from the appeal of external action,
scenery and costume.
Certainly there must be some at
tractive power in the poems of Ma
dame de Noailles. Her latest volume,
Lies Forces EterneIIes." (Artheme
Fayard & Cie., Paris). is already in
it's tenth edition. And its readers are
won, not by any startling or sensa-
tional effects. but by the truth and
intensity of her art. by her penet~a-
ton into the depths Of experience and
the breadth of her sympathies. Her
themes Of it's four parts give an idea
OF her scope: The War; the Soul of
the Landscape; Poems of the Spirit;
Poems of Love.
= When the first volume of her verse
appeared. 20 years ago, lie Occur
Innona brable,' the masters of French
criticism were unanimous in recogni
ton of poets presence among us.
Could I do better than to let another
poet, Henry de Regnier of the Acad-
emy, give his opinion:
Madame de Noailles comes before
the public youthfully rich in the high
est gifts. In her there is a marvel
lous union of the classic and the ro-
mantle. She Is classic by virtue of a
certain sense of order and harmony.
romantic in the intensity of her ex-
preston of personal feeling and in a
natural artistry in the use of words"
The same critic welcomed her first
book with the wish that it be mot
the only delight she will give us.
Poetry is a property of her spirit.
Nine. de Noialles lays down
to-day a medal OF ringing bronze.
The face is already craven with signs
Of good omen. The other side is yet
blank May there be inscribed one
day some design of wonder, immortal
and crowned"
NJ. Regnier's wish has been realized.
The young poet produced two volumes
of verse in rapid succession. "LOmbr
des Jours" and "Eblouissements."
And her prose included three novels.
"La NouvelIe Esperdnce," lie Visuge
EmerveilIe and Domination" Each
20 ~ 10 d.ro
The Tyre lay silent for six years and
1t was only in 1918 that lies Vivdnts
ct Les Morts" appeared-almost a
prophecy of the war-"The Living and
the Dead" And this latest volume,
Lies Forces EterneIles," begins with a
section Of verse on the war. This is
not Of those ephemeral songs, born OF
the days excitement only to die to-
morrow. Deeper than the accident OF
war she sings OF death itself, the great
change. How simply she questions the
dead!
Can It be that thou art In the life eter-
nal.
Thou who vert here?
She suffers with all the power OF
her heart in the agony OF the living
soldiers and she feels the deep soli-
tude In which the dead are lying:
Lc ok long at him who is dead. Behold
What war has crowned. all in a mo-
ment.
An army is tide. compact and roaring
in one voice.
Where no face emerges and none Is
named,
mingled their blood
But dying man is a man alone!
One man stretched out, austere immen-
sityl
One alone. and all the weight OF sorrow
upon him.
One sum of torture upon whom the
night falls
IT. the fields.
He is all alone. with his flesh. his blood,
his bones,
There Is no similitude for his loneliness.
o dying body, to which nothing ever
more can be married
In the nature section the mature
poet sings, with as fresh a wonder
as in her first lyrics. all that she
sees and hears and breathes---a color,
the cry of a bird. perfume. The
odors OF nature are as marked as the
notes of its music. Even the chill
blossoms OF the snow send forth a
wintry smell. Evidently this imme-
diacy OF nature to her sense is In
part a heritage of childhood. She calls
back the memory of her home In
Geneva:
There felt the winds of autumn
Blow open my heart with great blasts
To make room In II for oil that suffers
and trembles.
But IL the springtime intoxication
is characteristic OF her first volumes.
It Is the maturity Of summer that she
glorifies above all In her latest.
The summer leans upon my heart and I.
faint with longing.
With longing and homesickness.
I cannot explain
This pleasing and pitiful magic.
The languishing, warm rain
Is like loving sorrow:
Not the gay tamborine
OF the crisp and rustlnE springtime.
The brittle sound OF grasshoppers
Tapping the soil this rain is the sharp
flight