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Much of his verse especially his later verse is to me, at least, as obscure as Mallarme. But Il pleut dans mon coeur Comme il pleut dans la rue can never be surpassed for the fidelity with which it renders the endless drip, drip of melancholia, unless it is by that other magical lyric: Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone.
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