Chopin, "subtle-souled psychologist," is more kin to Keats than
Shelley, he is a greater artist than a thinker. His philosophy is
of the beautiful, as was Keats', and while he lingers by the
river's edge to catch the song of the reeds, his gaze is oftener
fixed on the quiring planets. He is nature's most exquisite
sounding-board and vibrates to her with intensity, color and
vivacity that have no parallel. Stained with melancholy, his joy
is never that of the strong man rejoicing in his muscles. Yet his
very tenderness is tonic and his cry is ever restrained by an
Attic sense of proportion. Like Alfred De Vigny, he dwelt in a
"tour d'ivoire" that faced the west and for him the sunrise was
not, but O! the miraculous moons he discovered, the sunsets and
cloud-shine! His notes cast great rich shadows, these chains of
blown-roses drenched in the dew of beauty. Pompeian colors are
too restricted and flat; he divulges a world of half-tones, some
"enfolding sunny spots of greenery," or singing in silvery shade
the song of chromatic ecstasy, others "huge fragments vaulted
like rebounding hail" and black upon black.
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