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Alte!" he screamed: "Dido sat on high: Aeneas stood at the foot of her throne. Listen to this: 'Then Dido, bending down her gaze . . . " He went on translating. A rapture took him, and the sun beat in through the glass roof, and lit up his eyes. He was transfigured; his voice swelled and sank with passion, swelled again, and then, at the words "Quae te tam laeta tulerunt Saecula?
His sorrow possessed him no more: he possessed his sorrow: in vain it fluttered and beat upon its bars: he kept it caged. From that period date his most poignant and his happiest works: a scene from the Gospel which Georges recognized "Mulier, quid ploras?" "Quia tulerunt Dominium meum, et nescio ubi posuerunt eum."
They are the commonalty of language, private, proletarian words, who do the work, "dum alteri tulerunt honores." They come to us from all handiworks and callings, where you will always find them at their posts. Sharp, energetic, incisive, they do the hard labor of speech, that of carrying heavy loads of thought and shaping new ideas.
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