English. Occasionally, indeed, the truth is forced upon us that even in
prose "a thing may be well said once but cannot be well said twice" (τὸ
καλῶς εἰπεῖν ἅπαξ περιγίγνεται, δὶς δὲ οὐκ ἐνδέχεται), but this is
generally because the genius of one language lends itself with special
ease to some singularly felicitous and often epigrammatic form of
expression which is almost or sometimes even quite untranslatable. Who,
for instance, would dare to translate into English the following
description which the Duchesse de Dino[29] gave of a lady of her
acquaintance: "Elle n'a jamais été jolie, mais elle était blanche et
fraîche, _avec quelques jolis détails"_? On the whole, however, it may
be said that if the prose translator is thoroughly well acquainted with
both of the languages which he has to handle, he ought to be able to pay
adequate homage to the genius of the one without offering undue violence
to that of the other.

The case of the translator of poetry, which Coleridge defined as "the
best words in the best order," is manifestly very different. A phrase
which is harmonious or pregnant with fire in one language may become
discordant, flat, and vapid when translated into another. Shelley spoke
of "the vanity of translation." "It were as wise (he said) to cast a
violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of
its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into
another the creations of a poet."

Longinus has told us[30] that "beautiful words are the very light of
thought" (φῶς γὰρ τῷ ὄντι ἴδιον τοῦ νοῦ τὰ καλὰ ὀνόματα), but it will
often happen, in reading a fine passage, that on analysing the
sentiments evoked, it is difficult to decide whether they are due to
the thought or to the beauty of the words. A mere word, as in the case
of Edgar Poe's "Nevermore," has at times inspired a poet. When Keats,