MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday evening I left the first line trenches
in broken weather which, in the night, after my arrival here, turned
into rain. I watch it falling through the fog from my favourite window.
If you like I will tell you of the wonders I saw yesterday.

From the position described in my letter of yesterday, can be seen, as
I have often written to you, the most marvellous horizon. Yesterday a
terrible wind rent a low veil of clouds which grew red at their summits.
Perhaps the background of my 'Haheyna' will give you a faint idea of
what it was. But how much more majestic and full of animation was the
emotion I experienced yesterday.

The hills and valleys passed in turn from light to shade, now defined,
now veiled, according to the movement of the mists. High up, blue spaces
fringed with light.

Such was the beauty of yesterday. Shall I speak of the evenings that
went before, when, on my way along the road, the moon brought out the
pattern of the trees, the pathetic Calvaries, the touching spectacle of
houses which one knew were ruins, but which night seemed to make stand
forth again like an appeal for peace.

I am glad to see you like Verlaine. Read the fine preface by Coppée to
the selected works, which you will find in my library.

His fervour has a spontaneity, I might almost say a grossness, which
always repels me a little, just because it belongs to that kind of
Catholic fervour which on its figurative side will always leave me cold.
But what a poet!