wind of this world and its idle noise, the embarrassment of luxury, and
the din of glory, and what is called the enjoyment of triumph, are not
worth a little hour of love beneath a pine tree! See, from my hand the
bridle escapes, my skull is bursting, and I am not sure now that the
people in their fear are not right in dreading thee like a ghost, now
that I feel, as my reward, thy burning poison streaming through my
heart. Yes, thou art the fairy Esterello, and thou art unmasked at last,
cruel creature! In the chill of thy refusal I have known the viper. Thou
art Esterello, bitter foe to man, haunting the wild places, crowned with
nettles, defending the desert against those who clear the land. Thou art
Esterello, the fairy that sends a shudder through the foliage of the
woods and the hair of the terrified hermit; that fires with the desire
of her perfumed embrace her suitors and in malevolence drives them to
despair with infernal longings.

"My head is bursting, and since from the heights of my supernatural love
a thunderbolt thus hurls me down, since, nothing, nothing henceforth,
from this moment on, can give me joy, since, cruel woman, when thou
couldst throw me a rope, thou leavest me, in dismay, to drink the bitter
current--let death come, black hiding-place, bottomless abyss! let me
plunge down head first!"

And when Esterello, fearing he will slay himself, clasps him about the
neck, they stand silently embraced, "the tears, in tender mingling, rain
from their eyes; despair, agitation, a spell of happiness, keep their
lips idle, and from hell, at one bound, they rise to paradise."

Like the creations of Victor Hugo's poetry, those of Mistral speak the
language of the author. They have his eloquence, his violent energy of
figurative speech, his love of the wild, sunny landscapes about them;