What purity, and at the same time what ease and tenderness! It is not only the fever of the heart; it is life itself, its religion, its virtue.

This poor innuocento does not live to love; she loves to live....

Her love diffuses itself like a perfume--like the scent of a flower....

In writing Maltro your muse becomes virgin and Christian; and to dictate L'Abuglo is a crown of flowers, violets mingled with roses, like Tibullus, Anacreon, and Horace." And again: "Poet, be happy; sing in the language of your mother, of your infancy, of your loves, your sorrows.

The Gascon songs, revived by you, can never be forgotten.