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56 “Provençal Poets” by denIs of PorTuGal The Provençeaux are able to write fine verse, and they say that it’s love that fills them with inspiration, but they who can only address themselves to creation in the season when flowers bloom . . . What do they know? They’re lightweights; their hearts are never filled with woe, as mine is. I write better when I feel worse. They toss off clever and finely embellished lays about their ladies all of whom are fine, and we can agree that women and roses and wine are agreeable and you’d have to be dense indeed not to enjoy them. Their poems are fun to read, but God knows a man’s heart can break some days. Those who only celebrate and praise the pretty flowers of springtime, where do they go when that happy season passes and there are no twittering birds to rhyme about? Uninspired without Joy’s fleeting muses, they soon grow tired; my grief is loyal and faithful and it stays. ...

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