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"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils Morts, a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty." When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of beer.
As to the verse, I know of few attempts to translate the untranslatable. Perhaps Mr. Symons has tried his accomplished hand at the task. How render the sumptuous assonance and solemn rhythms of Marche Funèbre: O convoi solennel des soleils magnifiques? "Je ne suis qu'un viveur lunaire Qui faits des ronds dans les bassins Et cela, sans autre dessin Que devenir un légendaire...."
The beginnings of a decline, in every age of history, have always had the appearance of being reforms. Nero not only fiddled while Rome was burning, but he probably really paid more attention to the fiddle than to the fire. The Roi Soleil, like many other soleils, was most splendid to all appearance a little before sunset.
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