Читать книгу Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois - Gérard de Nerval - Страница 4

There is an air for which I would disown

Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, —

A sweet, sad air that languishes and sighs,

And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,

Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;

The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold

A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers,

The windows gay with many coloured glass;

Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,

That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,

A lady looks forth from her window high;

It may be that I knew and found her fair,

In some forgotten life, long time gone by.