I am the shadowy - the widowed - sadly mute,
At ruined tower still the Prince of Aquitaine:
My single star is dead - my constellated lute
Now bears the sable sun of melancholy pain.

In darkness in my grave, you who once could cheer,
Return me Posilipo and the Italian sea,
The flower which was to my tormented heart so dear,
The trellis where the rose and vine entwined could be.

Am I Amor or Phoebus?…Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead is still red from that kiss by the queen;
That grotto where the siren swims, I've had my dream…

Two times the conquerer I've crossed the Acheron,
And on the lyre of Orpheus, changing from key to key,
I've sung both saintly sighs and sung the fairy's lay.