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Poem by Nerval written in 1832. Translation (AJ): 1. There is a tune, for which I would give All Rossini, all Mozart and all Weber; A tune very old, languishing and funereal, Which, for me only, has some secret charms.
2. Now, each time I come to hear it By two hundred years my soul gets younger: It’s under Louis the Thirteen, and I believe I see stretching A green hillside that the setting sun is turning yellow;
3. Then a castle in bricks and cornerstones, With glass windows stained with reddish colours, Surrounded by large parks with a river Washing its foot and flowing between flower beds.
4. Then a lady at her high window, Fair with dark eyes, in ancient clothes, Who, in another existence perhaps, I have already seen, and who I remember…