I am the gloomy one—the widower—the unconsoled,
the Prince of Aquitaine at the ruined tower.
My only star is dead and my studded lute
Carries the black sun of melancholy.
In the night of the tomb, you consoled me.
Restore to me Posilipo and the Italian sea,
the flower which so pleased my desolate heart
and the arbor wherein the vine shoot unites itself with the rose.
Am I love or Phoebus ... Lusignon or Biron?
My brow is still red with the kiss of the queen.
I have dreamed in the grotto where the siren swims ...
and I have twice been the victor crossing the Acheron,
modulating by turns on the lyre of Orpheus
the sighs of the saint and the cries of the sprite.