Myrtho

I think of thee, Myrtho, thou divine enchantress,

Of lofty Pausilippo, its thousand fires shining,

Of thy brow flooded o’er in the Orient’s gleaming,

Of black grapes mingled with the gold that is thy tress.

In thy cup as well I’ve tasted drunkenness,

And in the furtive lightnings of thine eyes all smiling,

When at the feet of Iacchus I had been seen praying,

For the Muse has made me one of the sons of Greece.

They’ll be back, those gods whom thou weepest always!

Time will recall again the order of ancient days;

The very earth has shaken with a breath prophetic...

Nevertheless the sibyl with a Latin mien

Is sleeping still beneath the arch of Constantine,

—And nothing has disturbed the severe portico.

Gérard de Nerval