MYRTHO

(Gerard de Nerval)

I think of you, Myrtho, divine enchantress
and of haughty Posilipo with its thousand bright
fires; of your brow showered in an Oriental light;
and of black grapes mingled with your golden tresses.

It is from your cup, too, that I drank to drunkenness,
as in the furtive lightning of your smiling eyes, I lay
down at Dionysus’ feet to pray
because the muse had made me a son of Greece.

I know why the distant volcano erupts apace.
It is because you touched it with an agile foot just yesterday
and suddenly hot cinders covered heaven’s face.

After a Norman duke had crushed your gods of clay,
Virgil’s laurel branches still gave shade, where, always,
the pale hydrangea and green myrtle interlace.