Little Poems in Prose

flowers and the leaves have been made for the stick, or if the stick is but a pretext to display the beauty of the leaves and of the flowers? The thyrsus is a symbol of your astonishing duality, Franz Liszt, powerful and revered mas- ter, dear Bacchante of mysterious and pas- sionate beauty. Never did nymph, frenzied by unconquerable Bacchus, shake her thyrsus over the heads of her maddened companions with so much energy and caprice as you when you wield your genius upon the hearts of your brothers!— The staff is your will; straight, stiff, unshak- able. The flowers are the dance of your fancy around your will; it is the female element exe- cuting its spell-weaving around the male; straight line and arabesque line; intention and expression; rigidity of the will, sinuosity of the word; unity of end, variety of emotions. Om- nipotent and indivisible amalgam of genius, what analyst will find the hateful courage to dissect and separate you? Dear Liszt, across the fogs, beyond the riv- ers, above the towns whose musical instru- ments acclaim your glory, where the printer’s press interprets your wisdom, in whatever place you may be, in the splendours of the eternal city or among the folks of the dreamy countries which Gambrinus consoles, improvis-