"Beneath this sky, so livid and strange,
Tormented like thy destiny,
What thoughts within thy spirit range
Themselves?--O libertine reply."
--With vain desires, for ever torn
Towards the uncertain, and the vast,
And yet, like Ovid--I'll not mourn--
Who from his Roman Heaven was cast.
O heavens, turbulent as the streams,
In you I mirror forth my pride!
Your clouds, which clad in mourning, glide,
Are the hearses of my dreams,
And in your illusion lies the hell,
Wherein my heart delights to dwell.