To the Muse of Solomos, from my childhood and if I met her, I did not love her with the flame of first sorrow; because I was not a child when I noticed her. And she bound me with the unbreakable chain that once binds the passion to the learned heart, to mature age. Solomos is not a poet to move those who contemplate the spiritual with childish lightness. The works of other compatriots, here and elsewhere, can easily be approached and enjoyed, and easily satiated and forgotten; his verse, meaning, speech, measures, does not have the simplicity and does not open like others.

His language is also difficult, foreign to the tradition of school education, incompatible with the language of our office and our book, as much as it is compatible with the depths of our soul; but for this reason, his verse attracts those who will be attracted more thoughtfully, and once and for all. Even those who feel the importance of Solomos' art, as they should, are measured, and where they deserve to feel it.

We can say about the psalmist of the "Free Besieged" what the philosopher Nietzsche said about Goethe: "He has not yet shown all his influence, his time has not yet come." I do not know if there is another poet in literature, with works so few and so half-done, equally strong, rich and important. His work brings to mind some ruins on certain peaks; we climb there towards them, and not only are the ruins impressed but also the wide-open horizons that open when we open our eyes among them.