To the north of the castle stretched a waste land strewn with druidical stones; I would go and sit upon one of these stones at sunset. The gilded summit of the woods, the splendor of the earth, the evening star twinkling through the rosy clouds brought me back to my dreams: I longed to enjoy this sight with the ideal object of my desires. I followed in thought the luminary of the day; I gave him my beauty to escort, so that he might present her all radiant with himself to the homage of the universe. The evening breeze shattering the web woven by insects upon the tips of the blades of grass, the field-lark alighting upon a pebble recalled me to reality: I turned my steps back to the castle, with heart oppressed and downcast face. [Sidenote: The Sylph of my dreams.] On stormy days in summer, I climbed to the top of the great west tower. The thunder roaring beneath the castle lofts, the torrents of rain which fell dashing upon the cone-shaped roof of the towers, the lightning which furrowed the clouds and marked the brass weathercocks with its electric flame aroused my enthusiasm: like Ismen on the ramparts of Jerusalem, I invoked the thunder, I hoped that it would bring Armida to me. If the sky was clear, I crossed the Great Mall, around which lay meadows divided by hedges of willow-trees. In one of these willows, I had contrived a seat, like a nest: here, isolated between heaven and earth, I spent hours with the singing birds; my nymph was by my side. I also associated her image with the beauty of those spring nights filled with the freshness of the dew, the sighs of the nightingale and the murmuring of the breeze. At other times I followed a deserted path, a stream adorned with its river-side plants; I listened to the sounds that issued from unfrequented parts; I lent an ear to every tree; I thought I heard the moonlight singing in the woods: I tried to tell these pleasures, and the words died upon my lips. I know not how I found my goddess again in the accents of a voice, the vibration of a harp, the velvety or liquid sounds of a horn or an harmonica. It would take too long to describe the fine journeys I took with my flower of love; how, hand in hand, we visited famous ruins, Venice, Rome, Athens, Jerusalem, Memphis, Carthage; how we crossed the seas; how we asked happiness of the palm-trees of Otaheite, of the scented groves of Timor and Amboyna; how, on the summit of the Himalayas, we went to wake the dawn; how we descended the sacred rivers whose spreading waves encircle gilt-domed pagodas; how we slept on the banks of the Ganges, while the Bengali, perched on the mast of a bamboo wherry, sang his Hindoo boat-song. Earth and Heaven no longer existed for me; above all, I forgot the latter; but though it no longer received my prayers, it heard the voice of my secret misery: for I suffered, and sufferings pray. *