Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois

Of all that were thy prisons--ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!--none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, Thou still would'st bear that mystic golden bough The Sybil doth to singing men allow, Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants, dost thou find A new life gladder than the old times were, A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind? ANDREW LANG.
Two loves there were, and one was born Between the sunset and the rain; Her singing voice went through the corn, Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn, On grass the fallen blossoms stain; And suns may set and moons may wane, But this love comes no more again. There were two loves, and one made white Thy singing lips and golden hair; Born of the city's mire and light, The shame and splendour of the night, She trapped and fled thee unaware; Not through the lamplight and the rain Shalt thou behold this love again. Go forth and seek, by wood and bill, Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; There comes no voice from mere or rill, Her dance is over, fallen still The ballad burdens that she knew: And thou must wait for her in vain, Till years bring back thy youth again. That other love, afield, afar Fled the light love, with lighter feet. Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, And flit in dreams from star to star, That dead love thou shalt never meet, Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain Thy soul shall find her soul again. ANDREW LANG.
Il a toujours cherché dans le monde ce que le monde ne pouvait plus lui donner. LUDOVIC HALÉVY.
He has been a sick man all his life. He was always a seeker after something in the world that is there in no satisfying measure, or not at all. WALTER PATER.
Of Gérard de Nerval, whose true name was Gérard Labrunie, it has been finely said: His was the most beautiful of all the lost souls of the French Romance. ( ) Born in 1808, he came to his death by suicide one dark winter night towards the end of January.