With Sagesse begins a new phase in his poetry; he emerges from the sensual, poisonous dreams that enthralled his soul; a new emotion, a mysterious joy, has followed in the train of sorrow; the horizon is no more an inscrutable, unanswering gloom; the first sunbeam of Hope glides on the water, tracing a golden path for heavenly apparitions. Henceforth his images, quickened by an intense inner life, assume a supernatural radiance; his songs have the rapture that springs from the deepest sources of religious meditation. His work takes on a new grace, the charm of an almond-tree, in full bloom, mystically white, near some dark lonely pool, all its blossoms quivering like tiny silver wings in the breeze. The stain of guilt is washed away, a blissful calm enfolds the mind; yet the remembrance of sins remains, a sincere remorse, mingling a dim sadness with his exultation; the chilliness of the bleak Night lingers in his soul drunk with the splendour of the Dawn. He lifts his mind to eternal hopes and his prayer rises to an ecstatic chant. It is not the limpid hymn of Faber, the introspective poetry of Newman; he never rises to the ardours of Crashaw; but his lyrics are full of a secret beauty, of deep tenderness and love; they glow with a subdued fire, as when through a thin veil of mist a lily reveals its core of burning gold. In his wanderings through the Land of Evil, the night had closed above his soul, he seemed to stifle under the weight of sultry darkness; at last a serene tract of sky appeared, bright with stars, above the sombre plain; and, as he surveys the ruins wrought by sin in his heart, and, sick of vain desires, yearns to infinite peace, he sings the victory over temptations, the purification, the springing up of the soul, soaring on immortal wings.
'God said to me: 'My son, you must love me. You see my pierced side, my radiant heart bleeding, and my bruised feet that Magdalen laves with her tears, and my arms aching under the weight of your sins, and my hands! — Have I not loved you even unto death, o my brother in my Father, o my son in the Holy Ghost? Have I not suffered as it was written? Have I not sobbed your agony supreme, o poor friend who are seeking me where I am?'
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Olivero, F (1921). Studies in Modern Poetry: Paul Verlaine:Page3. Retrieved , from La Nouvelle Décadence Web site: http://webspace.webring.com/people/tl/lanouvelledecadence /verbiooli03.html
Olivero, Federico. "Studies in Modern Poetry: Paul Verlaine:Page3." La Nouvelle Décadence. 1921. < http://webspace .webring.com/people/tl/lanouvelledecadence/verbiooli03.html >.
Olivero, Federico. "Studies in Modern Poetry: Paul Verlaine:Page3." La Nouvelle Décadence. Available from http://webspace.webring.com /people/tl/lanouvelledecadence/verbiooli03.html. Internet; accessed .
Olivero, Federico. "Studies in Modern Poetry: Paul Verlaine :Page3." 1921.http://webspace.webring.com/people/tl /lanouvelledecadence/verbiooli03.html (accessed ).
AUTHOR: Olivero, Federico (1921).
TITLE OF WEBPAGE: "Studies in Modern Poetry: Paul Verlaine:Page3".
TITLE OF WEBSITE: La Nouvelle Décadence.
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