In the mournful vaults of fathomless gloom
To which Fate has already banished me
Where a bright, rosy beam never enters;
Where, alone with Night, that sullen hostess
I'm like a painter whom a mocking God
Condemns to paint, alas! upon darkness;
Where, a cook with a woeful appetite
I boil and I eat my own heart;
At times there shines, and lengthens, and broadens
A specter made of grace and of splendor;
By its dreamy, oriental manner
When it attains its full stature
I recognize my lovely visitor;
It's She! dark and yet luminous
