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El Desdichado
Dark am I, the widowed, the disconsolate
Prince of Aquitaine in this crumbling keep
Dead my only star, and my lute inconstellate
Bears the black Sun of mournful Grief.
You who have consoled me, in this graven night
O bring back Posillipo and the shores of Italy
The flower which showed my shadowed heart such light
And the arbor where the rose twined round the ivy.
Am I Love or Phoebus? Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead still red from the kiss of the queen
In the siren's cave, I dreamed a dream...
And twice victorious have I crossed the Acheron
Sounding forth on my Orphean lyre
First the holy sighs and then the fairy choir.
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