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Updated: May 28, 2025
The artless flute-strains of his lyrics awoke within me the music of fields and forest-glades. Into these same pages I have wept many a tear over a pathetic translation of Paul and Virginie.
She has had no time to pause or ponder, or to light herself a torch, as she rushes forward into the darkness ahead. I know well how her very soul responds to the distant flute-strains which call her; how her breast rises and falls; how she feels she nears it, nay it is already hers, so that it matters not even if she run blindfold. She is no mother.
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