The poem
My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning? Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions, In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection, I see insanity and horror forming. The green succubus and the red urchin, Have they poured you fear and love from their urns? The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns, Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?
I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity, That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,
Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables, Where reigns in turn the father of songs, Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.