III.
In thus bringing out a fresh version of Sylvie, not to include the all too few illusive lyrics "done into English" by Mr. Lang, his exquisite sonnet on Gérard, and the lovely lines upon "Sylvie et Aurélie," were a deplorable omission. The sonnet exists in an earlier form; preferably, the later version is here given.
Of De Nerval's prose little has yet found its way to us. His poetry is fully as inaccessible. Things of such iridescent hue are possibly beyond the art of translation. They are written in an unknown tongue; say, rather, in the language of Dreamland, "vaporous, unaccountable";—a world of crepuscular dawns, as of light irradiated from submerged sea caverns,—"the mermaid's haunt" beheld of him alone.
IV.
With what adieux shall we now take leave of our little pearl of a story? And of him who gave us this exquisite creation of heart and brain what words remain to say?
Thou, Sylvie, art an unfading flower of virginal, soft Spring, and faint, elusive skies. For thee Earth's old sweet nights have shed their tenderest dews, and in thy lovely Valois land thou canst not fade or die.
Thy lover, child, fared forth beneath an alien star. For him there was no true country, here;—no return to thy happy-hearted love: the desert sands long since effaced the valley track. Only the far distant lying,—the abyss that calls and is never dumb, urged his onward steps. And these things, and this divine homesickness led him, pale nympholept, beyond Earth's human shores. Thither to thee, rapt Soul, shall all bright dreams of day, all lonely visions of the night, converge at last.