There is a dark and lucid exchange
When the heart becomes its own mirror
A clear, black well of truth
Through which glimmers
A livid star
An ironic beacon
A torch of satanic grace
Man's sole relief and his glory
Consciousness in evil

An Idea, a Form, a Being,
Parted from the azure
And fallen into the slough of some leaden Styx
Where no eye of heaven can penetrate

An angel, rash wanderer,
Tempted by the love of ugliness,
Lashing out like a swimmer
In the depths of a huge nightmare
And struggling (o fierce anguish)
Against a gigantic undertow
Which goes singing like a horde of madmen
And pirouetting in the gloom

An unfortunate man, groping futilely,
Seeking the light and the key to escape
From a hole full of reptiles
A damned man descending endless, bannisterless stairs,
Going lampless down the brink of a pit
Whose stench betrays its watery depths,
Where slimy monsters glare
With great phosphorescent eyes
That deepen the darkness of the night
And make nothing but themselves visible

A ship held in a crystal trap,
Icebound at the Pole,
Seeking the fatal passage
By which it reached that prison

All these are clear emblems,
Perfect pictures of an unchangeable fate
They make us think that whatever he does,
The Devil does well