Richard Sieburth gives a prose gloss;

El Dedichado

I am the man of gloom – the widower – the unconsoled, the prince of Acquitaine, his tower in ruins: My sole star is dead – and my constellated lute beats the Black Sun of Melancholia.

In the night of the tomb, you who consoled me, give me back Posilipo and the Italian sea, the flower that so pleased my desolate heart, and the arbour where the vine and the rose are intertwined.

Am I Amor or Phoebus? . . . Lusignan or Biron? My brow still burns from the kiss of the queen; I have dreamed in the grotto where the siren swims . . .

And I have twice victorious crossed the Acheron: Modulating on Orpheus’ lyre now the sighs of the saint, now the fairy’s cry.

Maybe the best yet, though I don’t know that I like “modulating” as a verb in English. The French given with this, for what it’s worth, capitalizes “Soleil” and italicizes “Soleil noir”, which is different from the French versions I’ve found on the web.