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were praised, my books, because I had just come from the country;

I was twenty years behind the times so you found an audience ready.

I do not disown you, do not you disown your progeny.

Here they stand without quaint devices, Here they are with nothing archaic about them.

Watch the reporters spit, Watch the anger of the professors, Watch how the pretty ladies revile them:

"Is this," they say, "the nonsense that we expect of poets?"

"Where is the Picturesque?" "Where is the vertigo of emotion?"

"No! his first work was the best." "Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions."