Galopam livres, vão e veem, os peitos cheios
De ar, o cabello solto ao léo das auras mansas.
Empallidece o luar, a noite cae, madruga.…
A dança hyppica pára e logo atrôa o espaço
O galope infernal das centauras em fuga:
E’ que, longe ao clarão do luar que impallidece,
Enorme, acceso o olhar, bravo, do heróico braço
Pendente a clava argiva, Hercules apparece.[6]
It is the twilight and the night that bring to her lines their more subjective moods; but even here, rarely do present emotions invade her. It is as if she must feel by indirection, even as she writes—now harking back to a longing, now looking forward unmoved, to the inevitable end. Yet there are moments when the impassive muse forgets her part; she strides down from her pedestal and cries out upon Nature as a “perfidious mother,” creator, in the long succession of days and nights, of so much vanity ever transforming itself. This Parnassianism then, is the mask of pride. And in such a sonnet as Angelus the mask is thrown off:
Oft, at this hour, when my yearning speaks