I am the Inconsolable,—the Widowed,—the Dark Sire,
The Prince of Aquitaine of the demolished Fort:
My one Star is
dead,—and my constellated lyre
To the Black Sun
of Melancholia pays court.
In the night of the Tomb, You who did console,
Give back Mount Pausilippe and the sea of Italy,
The flower that so
pleased my desolated soul,
And the trellis with Vine and Rose in filigree.
Am I Lusignan or Biron?... Eros or Phoebus?
My face is still red from the kiss of the Queen;
I’ve dreamed in the Grotto where the Siren swims...
And twice I’ve crossed Acheron singing hymns,
Voicing, by turns, on the strings of Orpheus,
The Fairy’s cries and the Saintly Woman’s spleen.
Gérard de Nerval (1853)
