Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled,
Nor shudder for the revels that are done:—
The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled,
The strings that Nero fingered are all gone.
We cannot crown ourselves with everything,
Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:—
No matter what we are, or what we sing,
Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.
And now, my brother, it is time
For me to tell the truth to you:
To tell the story of a crime
As black as Mona's eyes were blue.—
Yes, here to-night, before I die,
I'll speak the words that burn in me;
And you may send them, bye-and-bye,
To Calderon across the sea.
Now get some paper and a pen,
And sit right here, beside my bed.
Write every word I say, and then—
And then … well, what then?—I’ll be dead!—
… But here I am alive enough,
And I remember all I've done …
God knows what I was thinking of!—
But send it home—to Calderon.
And you, Francisco, brother, say,—
What is there for a man like me?—
I tell you God sounds far away—
As far—almost as far—as she!
I killed her! … Yes, I poisoned her—
So slowly that she never knew …
Francisco,—I'm a murderer.—
Now tell me what there is to do!