I, the obscure, the widowed, unconsoled,
The prince of Aquitaine at the slighted tower:
A black sun is the star-sign of my lyre,
For melancholy: my one star lies cold.
Come, in death’s dark, to one you have consoled:
Grant me Posillipo’s Italian shore;
Give to my grieving heart its precious flower,
Its arbours with wild vines and roses scrolled.
Am I Love, or Phoebus? Lusignan, or Biron?
The kiss, the queen’s kiss, lingers, blushing on
My brow; I dreamed in caves, where swam the siren…
Victorious twice I traversed Acheron,
Sounding in turn, on Orpheus’ lute, the sighs
Of the fair saint, and the enchantress’ cries.
Translated from French by © Timothy Ades