El Desdichado

am the dark, the widowed, the disconsolate.
I am the prince of Aquitaine whose tower is down.
My only star is dead, and star-configurate
my lute wears Melancholy's mark, a blackened sun.
Here in the midnight of the grave, give back, of late
my consolation, Pausilippe, the Italian
sea, with that flower so sweet once to my desolate
heart, and the trellis where the vine and rose are one.
Am I Lover Am I Phoebus, Biron, Lusignan?
Crimson the queen's kiss blazes still upon my face.
The siren's naked cave has been my dreaming place.
Twice have I forced the crossing of the Acheron
and played on Orpheus' lyre in alternate complaint
Melusine's cries against the moaning of the Saint.