I 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 Love? 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THREE SONNETS by RICHARD WILBUR INEVITABLY (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A NEW HYMN by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |