I am the dark inheritor of woe, The Prince of Aquitaine whose palace spire Lies low in dust. My star is dead. The wireOf my starr'd lute burns with an ebon glow.Into the grave's night send Pausilippo, Blue Latin seas; and let my soul respire The flower that won my weary heart's desire,The trellis where the rose and vine-leaf grow.
Am I Love or the Moon ...? Lusignan or Biron ...? My brow's still rosy with the Queen's hot kiss; I have swooned in sea-caves where the syren is ...Twice have I overborne Hell's surge: I won The lyre of Orpheus to sad melodiesOf saints, with fairies in loud antiphon.
