I am the man of shade, bereaved, inconsolate,
The Prince of Aquitaine, with my keep overthrown;
My only star is dead, and my zodiac'd lute
Blazoned now anew with black Melancholy’s sun.
In the night of the tomb, you who granted me peace,
Give me back Pausilippe, the Italian brine,
The flower that brought such joy to my heart, shorn of ease,
Or the rose-arch’s column enwrapped with grapevine.
Am I Love or Sun-god? Lousignan or Biron?
My temples reddened still by kisses from the Queen,
Here by the Siren’s sea-cave pool I had a dream…
As a conqueror twice, I have crossed Acheron,
Modulating in turn, on the Orphean lyre,
All the sighs of the Saint, and the elf-maiden’s cry!
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