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Updated: May 21, 2025
There is in every language I have known a great poem with this thought, common to all hearts that love, running through it, but I like this one of Houdart de La Motte's the best. When he had finished repeating the lines, with great beauty of voice and meaning, I asked him: "Did not Mademoiselle Capello send me a message?" "A thousand. Babache, Francezka loves you with all her heart.
Men despised real history and broke with it, to be subjected all the more to the tyranny of historical ghosts. While the poets were fettered in blind worship of the unities of Aristotle as of a fundamental historical law, Houdart, without understanding a word of Greek, corrected Homer, whose poetry did not seem to conform sufficiently to rule.
But instead of that he began to recite to me that poem, adored of lovers, by Houdart de La Motte to Célimène, in which the poet yearns to be the flower that reposes on the bosom of his beloved, the passing breeze that kisses her cheek, the nightingale whose sad notes detain her in the myrtle groves, the fair moon by which the shepherds bring home their flocks.
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