"I am the dark, the widower, the inconsolable
The Prince of Aquitaine before his ruined tower
My only star is dead, and now my jewel-studded lute
Will only bear the blackened sun of Melancholia.
In the night of the tomb, you, my consolation,
Return Posillipo and the Italian sea,
The flower that so eased my heart's desolation,
And the trellis that twines the rose into the vine.
Am I Eros or Phoebus? Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead still red with the kiss of the queen;
I have dreamt in the grotto where the siren swims. . .
And, twice triumphant, I have crossed Acheron:
My Orphic lyre in turn modulating the strains
Of the sighs of the saint and the cries of the fay."
- Gerard de Nerval, El Desdichado
· Mon Sep 09, 2013 @ 12:03am · 0 Comments