http : / / www . poetryintranslation . com / PITBR / Italian / Leopardi . htm Giacomo Leopardi The Canti HOME DOWNLOADTranslated by A . S . Kline © 2003 All Rights ReservedThis work may be freely reproduced , stored , and transmitted , electronically or otherwise , for any non - commercial purpose . Translator ’ s Note . The poems of the Canti below are complete but not in their originally published order . I have taken the liberty of re - arranging them into four groups , Personal ( Poems 1 - 11 ) , Philosophical ( 12 - 24 ) , ‘ Romantic ’ ( 25 - 34 ) , and Political ( 35 - 41 ) . These categories are not exact , as Leopardi frequently blends elements together in the one poem , but they may help the reader , as they helped me , to adjust to his variations in style . The original published position of each poem is given in Roman numerals in the brackets following the poem ’ s title . Contents 1 . To Silvia ( XXI ) 62 . The Infinite ( XII ) 83 . The Evening Of The Holiday ( XIII ) 94 . To the Moon ( XIV ) 115 . Saturday Night In The Village ( XXV ) 126 . To Himself ( XXVIII ) 147 . Night - Song Of A Wandering Shepherd of Asia ( XXIII ) 158 . First Love ( X ) 199 . The Solitary Bird ( XI ) 2310 . Imitation ( XXXV ) 2511 . Scherzo ( XXXVI ) 2612 . Moon - Set ( XXXII ) 2713 . Wild Broom ( XXXIV ) 2914 . The Calm After The Storm ( XXIV ) 3815 . Masterful Thought ( XXVI ) 4016 . Love And Death ( XXVII ) 4517 . Bas - Relief on An Ancient Tomb ( XXX ) 4918 . on A Lovely Lady ’ s Image ( XXX 1 ) 5319 . To Spring ( or Of The Ancient Myths ) ( VII ) 5520 . Hymn To The Patriarchs ( VIII ) 5821 . Sappho ’ s Last Song ( IX ) 6222 . To Count Carlo Pepoli ( XIX ) 6423 . Fragment ( From Simonides I : XL ) 6924 . Fragment ( From Simonides II : XLI ) 7025 . The Dream ( XV ) 7126 . The Solitary Life ( XVI ) 7427 . To His Lady ( XVIII ) 7728 . Memories ( XXII ) 7929 . The Re - awakening ( Il Risorgimento : XX ) 8430 . Consalvo ( XVII ) 8931 . Aspasia ( XXIX ) 9332 . Fragment ( Alcetas and Melissus : XXXVII ) 9633 . Fragment ( Separation : XXXVIII ) 9834 . Fragment ( Turned to Stone : XXXIX ) 9935 . To Italy ( I ) 10236 . on the Proposed Dante Monument in Florence ( II ) 10637 . To Angelo Mai ( III ) 11238 . For The Marriage of His Sister Paolina ( IV ) 11739 . To A Winner In The Games ( V ) 12040 . Marcus Junius Brutus ( VI ) 12241 . Palinode To Marchese Gino Capponi ( XXXII ) 127 Index of First Lines . 135 1 . To Silvia ( XXI ) Silvia , do you rememberthose moments , in your mortal life , when beauty still shonein your sidelong , laughing eyes , and you , light and thoughtful , leapt beyond girlhood ’ s limits ? The quiet rooms and the streetsaround you , soundedto your endless singing , when you sat , happily content , intent on that woman ’ s work , the vague future , arriving alive in your mind . It was the scented May , and that ’ s howyou spent your day . I would leave my intoxicating studies , and the turned - down pages , where my young life , the best of me , was left , and from the balcony of my father ’ s housestrain to catch the sound of your voice , and your hand , quick , running over the loom . I ’ d look at the serene sky , the gold lit gardens and paths : this side the mountains , that side the far - off sea . And human tongue cannot saywhat I felt then . What sweet thoughts , what hope , what hearts , O my Silvia ! How all human life and fate appeared to us then ! When I recall that hopesuch feelings pain me , harsh , disconsolate , I brood on my own destiny . Oh Nature , Naturewhy do you not give nowwhat you promised then ? Whydo you so deceive your children ? Attacked , and conquered , by secret disease , you died , my tenderest one , and did not seeyour years flower , or feel your heart moved , by sweet praise of your black hairyour shy , loving looks . No friends talked with you , on holidays , about love . My sweet hopes died alsolittle by little : to me tooFate has denied those years . Oh , how you ’ ve passed me by , dear friend of my new life , my saddened hope ! Is this the world , the dreams , the loves , events , delights , we spoke about so much together ? Is this our human life ? At the advance of Truthyou fell , unhappy one , and from the distance , with your hand you pointedtowards death ’ s coldness and the silent grave . 2 . The Infinite ( XII ) It was always dear to me , this solitary hill , and this hedgerow here , that closes off my view , from so much of the ultimate horizon . But sitting here , and watching here , in thought , I create interminable spaces , greater than human silences , and deepestquiet , where the heart barely fails to terrify . When I hear the wind , blowing among these leaves , I go on to compare that infinite silencewith this voice , and I remember the eternaland the dead seasons , and the living present , and its sound , so that in this immensitymy thoughts are drowned , and shipwreck seems sweet to me in this sea . 3 . The Evening Of The Holiday ( XIII ) The night is sweet and clear , without a breeze , and the moon rests in the gardens , calm on the roofs , and reveals , clear , far off , every mountain . O my lady , the paths are still , and the night lightsshine here and there from the balconies : you sleep , and sleep gently welcomed youto your quiet room : nothingtroubles you : you still don ’ t know , or guesswith how deep a wound you ’ ve hurt my heart . You sleep : I gaze at the skythat seems so kind to my eyes : gaze on ancient all - powerful Nature , who created me for pain . She said : ‘ I refuse you hope , even hope , and may your eyes not shine , except with tears . ’ Today was holy : now restfrom pleasure , remember in dream , perhaps , how many you liked today , how manyliked you : not I , it ’ s not I that hopeto fill your thoughts . Instead I askwhat life has left me , throw myselfto earth , cry out , and tremble : oh , terrible days of green youth ! Ah , on the roadnearby , I hear the solitary songof the worker returning to his poor lodging , late , after the revels : and it grips my heart fiercelyto think the whole world passes , and scarcely leaves a trace . See : the holiday ’ sover : some nondescript day follows : time carries off all mortal things . Where now ’ s the sound of all thoseancient peoples ? Where are the criesof our famous ancestors , Rome ’ svast empire , its weapons , the clash of arms , crossing land and sea ? All ’ s peace and silence : the worldrests entirely , and we speak of them no more . Now I remember , in my young days , when the longed - for holiday was awaited , how , once it had passed , I lay , in sadness , pressed tight to my sheets : and , deep in the night , a song I heard in the streets , died , little by little , far off , crushing my heart , as now . 4 . To the Moon ( XIV ) O lovely moon , now I ’ m remindedhow almost a year since , full of anguish , I climbed this hill to gaze at you again , and you hung there , over that wood , as now , clarifying all things . Filled with mistiness , trembling , that ’ s how your face seemed to me , with all those tears that welled in my eyes , sotroubled was my life , and is , and does not change , O moon , my delight . And yet it does help me , to record my sadness and tell it , year by year . Oh how sweetly it hurts , when we are young , when hope has such a long journey to run , and memory is so short , this remembrance of things past , even if itis sad , and the pain lasts ! 5 . Saturday Night In The Village ( XXV ) The girl comes from the fields , at sunset , carrying her sheaf of grass : in her fingersa bunch of violets and roses : she ’ s ready , as before , to wreathe her hair and bodice , for tomorrow ’ s holiday . The old woman sits spinning , facing the dying sunlight , on the stairway , with her neighbours , telling the tale of her own young days , when she dressed for the festival , and still slim and lovely , danced all evening , with those youngboys , companions of her fairer season . Already the whole sky darkens , the air turns deep blue : alreadyshadows of hills and roofs return , on the young moon ’ s pale rising . Now the bells are witnessto the coming holiday : you would say the heart might take comfort from the sound . A gang of little boysshout in the tiny square , leaping here and there , making a happy din : and the farmhand , whistling , returns for his simple meal , dreams of his day of rest . When the other lights are quenched , all round , and everything else is silent , I hear the hammer ringing , I hearthe carpenter sawing : he ’ s still awakein the lamplight , in his shut workshop , hurrying and straining , to finish his task before dawn . This is the best of the seven days , full of hope and joy : tomorrow the hours will bringanxiety and sadness , and make eachturn , in thought , to their accustomed toil . Lively boy , your life ’ s sweet floweringis like this day of gladness , a clear day , unclouded , that heralds life ’ s festival . Enjoy the sweet hour , my child , this pleasant , delightful season . I ’ ll say nothing , more : let it not grieve youif your holiday , like mine , is slow to arrive . 6 . To Himself ( XXVIII ) Now you ’ ll rest forevermy weary heart . The last illusion has diedI thought eternal . Died . I feel , in truth , not only hope , but desirefor dear illusion has vanished . Rest forever . You ’ ve labouredenough . Not a single thing is worthyour beating : the earth ’ s not worthyof your sighs . Bitter and tedious , life is , nothing more : and the world is mud . Be silent now . Despairfor the last time . To our race Fategave only death . Now scorn Nature , that brute force that secretly governs the common hurt , and the infinite emptiness of all . 7 . Night - Song Of A Wandering Shepherd of Asia ( XXIII ) Why are you there , Moon , in the sky ? Tell me why you are there , silent Moon . You rise at night , and gocontemplating deserts : then you set . Are you not sated yetwith riding eternal roads ? Are you not weary , still wishingto gaze at these valleys ? It mirrors your life , the life of a shepherd . He rises at dawn : he drives his flock over the fields , seesthe flocks , the streams , the grass : tired at evening he rests : expecting nothing more . Tell me , O Moon , what life isworth to a shepherd , oryour life to you ? Tell me : wheredoes my brief wandering lead , or your immortal course ? Like an old man , white - haired , infirm , barefoot and half - naked , with a heavy load on his shoulders , running onwards , panting , over mountains , through the valleys , on sharp stones , in sand and thickets , wind and storm , when the days burnand when they freeze , through torrents and marshes , falling , rising , running faster , faster , without rest or pause , torn , bleeding : till he haltswhere all his efforts , all the roads , have led : a dreadful , vast abyssinto which he falls , headlong , forgetting all . Virgin Moon , such is the life of man . Man is born in labour : and there ’ s a risk of death in being born . The very first things he learnsare pain and anguish : from the firsthis mother and fatherconsole him for being born . Then as he growsthey both support him , go ontrying , with words and actions , to give him heart , console him merely for being human : there ’ s nothing kinder a parent can do for a child . Yet why bring one who needssuch comforting to life , and then keep him alive ? If life is a misfortune , why grant us such strength ? Such is the human condition , inviolate Moon . But you who are not mortal , care little , maybe , for my words . Yet you , lovely , eternal wanderer , so pensive , perhaps you understandthis earthly life , this suffering , the sighs that exist : what this dying is , this lastfading of our features , the vanishing from earth , the losingall familiar , loving company . And you must understandthe ‘ why ’ of things , and view the fruitsof morning , evening , silence , endless passing time . You know ( you must ) at what sweet loveof hers the springtime smiles , the use of heat , and whom the winterbenefits with frost . You know a thousand things , reveala thousand things still hidden from a simple shepherd . Often as I gaze at youhanging so silently , above the empty plainthat the sky confines with its far circuit : or see you steadilyfollow me and my flock : or when I look at the stars blazing in the sky , musing I say to myself : ‘ What are these sparks , this infinite air , this deep infinite clarity ? What does this vast solitude mean ? And what am I ? ’ So I question . About thesemagnificent , immeasurable mansions , and their innumerable family : and the steady urge , the endless motionof all celestial and earthly things , circling without rest , always returning to their starting place : I can ’ t imaginetheir use or fruit . But you , deathless maiden , I ’ m sure , know everything . This I know , and feel , that others , perhaps , may gain benefit and comfort from the eternal spheres , from my fragile being : but to me life is evil . O flock at peace , O happy creatures , I think you have no knowledge of your misery ! How I envy you ! Not only because you ’ re almost free of worries : quickly forgetting all hardship , every hurt , each deep fear : but because you never know tedium . When you lie in the shade , on the grass , you ’ re peaceful and content : and you spend most of the yearuntroubled , in that state . If I sit on the grass , in the shade , weariness clouds my mind , and , as if a thorn pricked me , sitting there I ’ m still furtherfrom finding peace and rest . Yet there ’ s nothing I need , and I ’ ve known no reason for tears . I can ’ t say what you enjoyor why : but you ’ re fortunate . O my flock : there ’ s little stillI enjoy , and that ’ s not all I regret . If you could speak , I ’ d ask you : ‘ Tell me , why are all creatures at peace , idle , lying in sweet ease : why , if I lie downto rest , does boredom seize me ? ’ If I had wings , perhaps , to fly above the clouds , and count the stars , one by one , or roam like thunder from crest to crest , I ’ d be happier , my sweet flock , I ’ d be happier , bright moon . Or perhaps my thought strays from truth , gazing at others ’ fate : perhaps whatever form , whatever stateit ’ s in , its cradle or its fold , the day of birth is dark to one that ’ s born . 8 . First Love ( X ) My thoughts turn to the day when I felt lovewar in me , for the first time , and I said : ‘ Ah , if this is love , how it torments me ! ’ When , with eyes fixed wholly on the ground , I marvelled at her , she who was first to open , all innocent , the passage to my heart . Ah , Love , how badly you ’ ve treated me ! Why does such sweet affection bring so much desire , and so much grief ? And why did such delight enter my heartnot serenely , not entire and pure , but filled with agony and trouble ? Tell me , gentle heart , what fearwhat anguish entered with that thought , compared with which all pleasures were annoyance ? Fulfilling thought that offered up yourself , in the day and night , when all things seem to be at peace in this hemisphere , you troubled me , unquiet , happy , wretched , lying beneath the covers , throbbing strongly at every moment . And whenever , sad , afflicted , weary , I closed my eyes in sleep : sleep vanishedconsumed by fever and delirium . Oh how the sweet vision rose , living , among the shadows , my closed eyesgazing at it beneath my eyelids ! Oh , how that sweetest of motions spreadthrough my bones , oh , how a thousand confused thoughts rolled through my trembling soul ! As a breeze , flowsthrough the heights of an ancient forest , and creates a long , uncertain murmuring . And oh , my heart , while I was silent , whileI failed to struggle , what did you say , as she departed , she the source of pain and throbbing ? I ’ d no sooner felt the burning of that blaze of love , than the little breeze that fanned the flame , flew on its way . I lay there sleepless in the dawn , and heard those horses , that would leave me lost , stamping their hooves outside my ancestral home . And I , secret , timid , and unsure , turned my eager hearing , eyes open in vain , towards the balcony in the darkness , to hear the last words , that might fallfrom her lips : to hear that voice : alas , since heaven took all else away . The servants ’ voices often struckmy doubting ear , and a chill took me , and my heart beat more fiercely ! And when that dear voice finally sankinto my heart , mixed with the soundsof carriage wheels and horses : I was left deserted , huddled tremblingon my bed , and , eyes closed , pressed my hand to my heart and sighed . Later , stupefied , dragging my shaking limbs round the silent room , I said : ‘ What else could ever move my heart ? ’ Then the bitterest memoryrooted in my mind , and closed my heartto all other voices , every other form . And a deep grief searched my breast , as when the heavens rain widely , washing the fields with melancholy . Nor did I , a boy of eighteen summersrecognise you , Love , when you first triedyour power on one born to weep . When I scorned every joy , and the stars ’ smiles did not please , not dawn ’ s calm silence , not green fields . Even the love of glory was silentin my heart that it used to warm , where once love of beauty lived . My eyes would not return to my studies , and that which I thought had madeall other desires vain , seemed vain itself . Ah how could I have altered so , in myself , how had one love taken all others from me ? Ah , in truth , how changeable we are ! Only my heart pleased , and that perpetual dialogue buried in my heart , keeping a guard on grief . And my eyes that searched the earth or myself , and allowed no fugitive or wandering glance to light on any face , vile or lovely : fearing to disturb the bright , virgin image that I held in my heart , as waves in a lake may be stirred by the breeze . And that regret , for not having fullydelighted in fleeting days , that weighs on the spirit , changing to poison past delight , stung my heart wholly : while shamewith its harsh bite still had no power . I swear to heaven , to you , great spirits , that there was no low desire in my heart : it burned with pure , unblemished fire . That fire still lives , affection lives , the lovely image breathes in my thought , from which I draw no delight that is not heavenly , and that , alone , satisfies me . 9 . The Solitary Bird ( XI ) Solitary bird , you sing from the crest of the ancient towerto the landscape , while day dies : while music wanders the valley . Spring brightensthe air around , exults in the fields , so the heart is moved to see it . Flocks are bleating , herds are lowing : more birds happily make a thousand circles in the clear sky , all around , celebrating these happy times : you gaze pensively , apart , at it all : no companions , and no flight , no pleasures call you , no play : you sing , and so see outthe year , the sweet flowering of your life . Ah , how like your ways to mine ! Pleasure and Joyyouth ’ s sweet companions , and , Love , its dear friend , sighing , bitter at passing days , I no longer care for them , I don ’ t know why : indeed I seem to fly far from them : seem to wander , a strangerin my native place , in the springtime of my life . This day , yielding to evening now , is a holiday in our town . You can hear a bell ring in the clear sky , you can hear the cannon ’ s iron thunder , echoing away , from farm to farm . Dressed for the festivalyoung people hereleave the houses , fill the streets , to see and be seen , with happy hearts . I go out , alone , into the distant country , postpone all delight and joyto some other day : and meanwhilemy gaze takes in the clear air , brings me the sun that sinks and vanishesamong the distant mountains , after the cloudless day , and seems to say , that the beauty of youth diminishes . You , lonely bird , reaching the eveningof this life the stars grant you , truly , cannot regretyour existence : since your every action is born of nature . But I , if I can ’ tevade through prayer , the detested threshold of old age , when these eyes will be dumb to others , and the world empty , and the futuredarker and more irksome than the present , what will I think of such desires ? Of these years of mine ? Of what happened ? Ah I ’ ll repent , and often , un - consoled , I ’ ll gaze behind me . 10 . Imitation ( XXXV ) Poor frail leaffar from your own branch , where are you flying ? – The windtore me from the beech that bore me . Whirling , in flight , it takes mefrom the forest to the plain , from the valley to the mountain . I myself journeyforever : ignoring all the rest . I go where all things go , where , of nature , goesthe flower of the rose , and the flower of the laurel . Note : The original French poem is by Antoine - Vincent Arnault ( 1766 - 1834 ) 11 . Scherzo ( XXXVI ) When as a boy I set myself to learn from the Muses , one of them grasped me by the handand all that dayled me around , to contemplate her workshop . Little by little she showed methe instruments of her art , and all their diverse usesthe effect of each of them when they ’ re employed in proseor they ’ re employed in verses . I marvelled , and I said : ‘ And Muse , your file ? ’ The Goddesssaid : ‘ Worn out : we do without it . ’‘ Shouldn ’ t it be repaired , ’ I added , ‘ if it ’ s done for ? ’ She replied : ‘ It should , but it ’ s something we ’ ve no time for . ’ 12 . Moon - Set ( XXXII ) As on a lonely nightthe moon descends , over the silvery waters and fields , where the breeze sighs , and distant shadows makea thousand vague aspects , and deceptive objects , among the tranquil waves , the branches , hedges , hills , and villages : and , lost at the sky ’ s end , behind Alps or Apennines , or in endless Tyrrhenian deeps , sets , and dims the world , so that shadows scatter , and a singlegloom darkens valley and mountain , so night remains alone , and the carter on the road salutes , with mournful song , the last gleamof vanishing light that led him on : so youth melts away , and leavesour mortal state . The shadowsand the forms of delightedillusion flee : and all the distanthopes our mortal nature trusts in , grow less . Life remains , dark , abandoned . The uncertain travellerstrains his eyes , blindly , in vain , to find some goal or reason in the longroad ahead : and seeshow human habitation becomestruly foreign to him , and he to it . Our wretched lifewould have seemedtoo happy and joyful , up there , if youth , whose every good brings a thousand ills , had been allowed to last a lifetime . The law that sentencesall creatures to death , would be too mild , if half of lifehad not first been madeharsher than the vilest death . The eternals made a worthy discoveryof immortal intellect : old age , worst of all evils , where desireclings , but hope is quenched , the founts of pleasure run dry , pain often grows , and good will not return . You , hills and shores , the glory in the west , that silvered the veil of night , has died , yet you will notbe widowed long : from the eastyou ’ ll see the skywhiten anew , and dawn will rise : then the sun will quickly followand , shine outwith powerful flames , flooding you , and the eternal realms , with torrents of light . But mortal life , will not brightenwith new light , or new dawn , once lovely youth is gone . It will be lonely to the end : the godshave set no limit to the gloomthat darkens old age , except the tomb . 13 . Wild Broom ( XXXIV ) ( or The Flower of the Desert ) ‘ And men loved darkness rather than the light ’ John , III : 19 Fragrant broom , content with deserts : here on the arid slope of Vesuvius , that formidable mountain , the destroyer , that no other tree or flower adorns , you scatter your lonely bushes all around . I ’ ve seen beforehow you beautify empty placeswith your stems , circling the Cityonce the mistress of the world , and it seems that with their grave , silent , aspect they bear witness , reminding the passer - byof that lost empire . Now I see you again on this soil , a lover of sad places abandoned by the world , a faithful friend of hostile fortune . These fields scatteredwith barren ash , coveredwith solid lava , that resounds under the traveller ’ s feet : where snakes twist , and couple in the sun , and the rabbits returnto their familiar cavernous burrows : were once happy , prosperous farms . They were golden with corn , echoedto lowing cattle : there were gardens and palaces , the welcome leisure retreats for powerful , famous cities , which the proud mountain crushedwith all their people , beneath the torrentsfrom its fiery mouth . Now all aroundis one ruin , where you root , gentle flower , and as thoughcommiserating with others ’ loss , send a perfume of sweetest fragrance to heaven , that consoles the desert . Let thosewho praise our existence visitthese slopes , to see how carefullyour race is nurturedby loving Nature . And herethey can justly estimateand measure the power of humankind , that the harsh nurse , can with a slight movement , obliterate one part of , in a moment , when we least fear it , and with a little less gentlea motion , suddenly , annihilate altogether . The ‘ magnificent and progressive fate ’ of the human raceis depicted in this place . Proud , foolish century , look , and see yourself reflected , you who ’ ve abandonedthe path , marked by advancing thought till now , and reversed your steps , boasting of this regressionyou call progress . All the intellectuals , whose evil fategave them you for a father , praise your babbling , thoughthey often make a mockery of you , among themselves . But I ’ llnot vanish into the grave in shame : As far as I can , I ’ ll demonstrate , the scorn for you , openly , that ’ s in my heart , though I know oblivion crushesthose hated by their own time . I ’ ve already mocked enoughat that fate I ’ ll share with you . You pursue Freedom , yet want thoughtto be slave of a single age again : by thought we ’ ve risen a little higher than barbarism , by thought alone civilisation grows , only thought guides public affairstowards the good . The truth of your harsh fateand the lowly place Nature gave youdisplease you so . Because of ityou turn your backs on the lightthat illuminated you : and in flight , you call him who pursues it vile , and only him great of heartwho foolishly or cunningly mocks himselfor others , praising our human state above the stars . A man generous and noble of soul , of meagre powers and weak limbs , doesn ’ t boast and call himselfstrong and rich in possessions , doesn ’ t make a foolish pretenceof splendid living or cutting a fine figure among the crowd : but allows himself to appearas lacking wealth and power , and says so , openly , and givesa true value to his worth . I don ’ t consider a mana great - hearted creature , but stupid , who , born to die , nurtured in pain , says he is made for joy , and fills pages with the stenchof pride , promising an exalted destiny on earth , and a new happiness , unknown to heavenmuch less this world , to peoplewhom a surging wave , a breathof malignant air , a subterranean tremor , destroys so utterly that they scarcely leave a memory behind . He has a noble naturewho dares to raise his voiceagainst our common fate , and with an honest tongue , not compromising truth , admits the evil fate allotted us , our low and feeble state : a nature that shows itselfstrong and great in suffering , that does not add to its miseries with fraternalhatred and anger , things worsethan other evils , blaming mankindfor its sorrows , but places blameon Her who is truly guilty , who is the motherof men in bearing them , their stepmother in malice . They call her enemy : and considerthe human race to be united , and ranked against her , from of old , as is true , judge all men allies , embraceall with true love , offering sincereprompt support , and expecting itin the various dangers and anguishof the mutual war on her . And thinkit as foolish to take up arms against menand set up nets and obstacles against their neighbours as it would be in war , surrounded by the opposing army , in the mostintense heat of battle , to start fierce struggles with friends , forgetting the enemy , to incite desertion , and wave their swordsamong their own forces . If such thoughts were revealedto the crowd , as they used to be , along with the horror that firstbrought men together in social contractagainst impious Nature , then by true wisdom the honest , lawful intercourseof citizens would be partly renewed , and justice and piety , would ownto another root than foolish pride , on which the morals of the crowdare as well foundedas anything else that ’ s based on error . Often I sit here , at night , on these desolate slopes , that a hardened lava - flow has clothed with brown , and which seem to undulate still , and over the gloomy waste , I see the stars flame , highin the purest blue , mirrored far off by the sea : the universe glittering with sparksthat wheel through the tranquil void . And then I fix my eyes on those lightsthat seem pin - pricks , yet are so vast in formthat earth and sea are really a pin - prick to them : to whom man , and this globe where man is nothing , are completely unknown : and gazingat those still more infinitely remote , knots , almost , of stars , that seem like mist to us , to whichnot only man and earth but allour stars , infinite in number and mass , with the golden sun , are unknown , or seem like pointsof misted light , as they appearfrom earth : what do you seem like , then , in my thoughts , O childrenof mankind ? And mindful ofyour state here below , of whichthe ground I stand on bears witness , and that , on the other hand , you believethat you ’ ve been appointed the masterand end of all things : and how oftenyou like to talk about the creatorsof all things universal , who descendedto this obscure grain of sand called earth , for you , and happily spoke to you , often : and that , renewing these ridiculous dreams , you still insult the wise , in an age that appears to surpass the restin knowledge and social customs : what feeling is it , then , wretched human race , what thoughtof you finally pierces my heart ? I don ’ t know if laughter or pity prevails . As a little apple that falls from a tree : late autumn ripeness , and nothing else , bringing it to earth : crushes , wastes , and covers in a moment , the sweet nests of a tribe of ants , carved outof soft soil , with vast labour , and the works , the wealth , that industrious race had vied to achieve , with such effort , and created in the summer : so the citiesof the farthest shores that the sea bathed , were shattered , confounded , coveredin a few moments , by a night of ruin , by ashes , lava and stones , hurled to the heights of heavenfrom the womb of thunder , falling again from above , mingled in molten streams , or by the vast overflowof liquefied masses , metals and burning sand , descending the mountainsideracing over the grass : so that nowthe goats graze above them , and new cities rise beside them , whose baseis their buried , demolished wallsthat the cruel mountain seems to crush underfoot . Nature has no more love or carefor the seed of man than for the ants : and if the destructionof one is rarer than that of the other , it ’ s for no other reasonthan that mankind is less rich in offspring . Fully eighteen hundred yearshave passed , since those once - populated citiesvanished , crushed by fiery force , yet the farmer intenton his vines , this dead and ashen soil barely nourishes , still lifts his gazewith suspicion , to the fatal peakthat sits there brooding , no gentler than ever , still threateningto destroy him , his children , and hismeagre possessions . And oftenthe wretch , lying awakeon the roof of his house , wherethe wandering breezes blow at night , jumps up now and again , and checksthe course of the dreadful boiling , that pours from that inexhaustible laponto its sandy slopes , and illuminatesthe bay of Capri , the portsof Naples and Mergellina . And if he sees it nearing , or hearsthe water bubbling , feverishly , deepin the well , he wakes his children , quicklywakes his wife , and fleeing , with whateverof their possessions they can grasp , watches from the distance , as his familiarhome , and the little fieldhis only defence against hunger , fall prey to the burning tide , crackling as it arrives , inexorablyspreading over all this , and hardening . Lifeless Pompeii returns to the light of heavenafter ancient oblivion , like a buried skeleton , that piety or the greed for land gives back to the open air : and , from its empty forum , through the ranks of broken columns , the traveller contemplatesthe forked peak and the smoking summit , that still threatens the scattered ruins . And , like night ’ s secret horror , through the empty theatres , the twisted temples , the shatteredhouses , where the bat hides its brood , like a sinister brandthat circles darkly through silent palaces , the glow of the deathly lava runs , reddening the shadowsfrom far away , staining the region round . So , indifferent to man , and the ageshe calls ancient , and the way descendantsfollow on from their ancestors , Nature , always green , proceeds insteadby so long a routeshe seems to remain at rest . Meanwhile empires fall , peoples and tongues pass : She does not see : and man lays claim to eternity ’ s merit . And you , slow - growing broom , who adorn this bare landscapewith fragrant thickets , you too will soon succumbto the cruel power of subterranean fire , that , revisiting placesit knows , will stretch its greedy marginover your soft forest . And you ’ ll bendyour innocent head , without a struggle , beneath that mortal burden : yet a head that ’ s not been bent in vainin cowardly supplicationbefore a future oppressor : nor liftedin insane pride towards the stars , or beyond the desert , whereyour were born and lived , not through intent , but chance : and you ’ ll have been so much wiserso much less unsound than man , since youhave never believed your frail species , can be made immortal by yourself , or fate . 14 . The Calm After The Storm ( XXIV ) The storm has gone : I hear the joyful birds , the hen , returning to the path , renews her cackling . See the clear skyopening from the west , over the mountain : the landscape clarifies , the river gleams bright in the valley . Now every heart is happy , on every sidethere ’ s the noise of workas they return to business . The craftsman comes to the door , his work in hand , singing , to gaze at the humid sky : a girl runs out to draw waterthat ’ s charged with fresh rain : and , from street to street , the vegetable seller raises his cry againSee the sun return , see how it ’ s smilingfrom hills and farms . The servants open balconies , terraces , lodges : hear the harness clinking , far offalong the highway : as the traveller ’ s carriagemoves , once more , down the road . Every heart is happy . When was life as sweet , as pleasant as it is now ? When did men turnto their work , or bend totheir studies with such love ? Or beginsome new venture ? Or were so forgetful of old wrongs ? Joy is born of pain : vain joy , the fruitof fear past , in one shaken , and fearful of death , who abhorred life before : fear that made men sweat and tremblein enduring anguish , shivering , silent , pale : seeinglightning , cloud , and wind , moving to attack them . O kindly Nature , these are your gifts , these are the delightsyou give to mortals . To be freeof pain is our delight . You scatter ills with generous hands : griefappears of itself , and pleasure , that ’ s so oftenborn of trouble , through the monstrous , and the miraculous , is our only gain . The humanrace , dear to the gods ! Happy enoughto gain a breathing spacefrom sorrow : blessedwhen death heals you of every grief . 15 . Masterful Thought ( XXVI ) Sweetest , powerfullord of my deepest mind : terrible , but deargift of the heavens : companionof my darkest days , Thought , that often stirs inside me . Who does not talk of your secret nature ? Who does not know its power among us ? Yet often , since human language gains its own impetusfrom your action , it often seems strangeto those who listen to what you create . How lonely my mind has become , since youtook it as your home ! All my other thoughts vanish , swift as flashes of lightningall around : Like a toweron an empty plain , you stand alone , gigantic , among them . What are earthly affairs , what is all life to me , compared with you ! What intolerable tedium , our leisure , familiar trades , the vain hopes of vain pleasure , beside that joy , the heavenly joy that comes from you ! Just as a traveller is happy to turn his eyes from bare rockin the rugged Apennines , towards some far green sunlit field , so I turn willingly from harsh , drymundane conversations , as if towards a happy garden , and your spacerestores my senses again . It seems well nigh incredibleI ’ ve endured this wretched life , and this foolish world , for so long without you : almost impossible to comprehendhow others can sighwith desire for anythingexcept what resembles you . Fear of death has never enteredmy heart , since I first learned from experience what life was . That final necessity this strange world sometimes praises , yet abhors and trembles at , seems like a jest to me today : and if danger threatens , I pauseand smile , to contemplate its menace . I ’ ve always despised cowards , and ungenerous spirits . Now any shameful actstings me at once : examples of human basenessstir my soul , at once , to scorn . I feel myself greaterthan this insolent agethat nourishes itself on empty hope , in love with gossip , hostile to virtue : foolish , it asks for sense , without seeing how life becomes more and more senseless . I scorn human judgement : and tread downthat fickle crowd , hostileto true thought , who despise your worth . What allegiance does not yieldto that from which you rise ? Indeed what other allegiancebut this has power among mortals ? Avarice , pride , hatred , disdain , love of honour , power , what are they but whimscompared to this ? only one allegianceis alive to us : eternal lawhas only decreed one over - ruling lord of the human heart . Life has no worth or meaningexcept in this , which is all to us : which alone absolves fatefor placing mortals hereto suffer , with no other purpose : in this one allegiance , life is more noble than death , if not to fools , to hearts that are not base , Sweet thought , because of your joys , to have endured our human troubles , and suffered this mortal lifefor many years , has not been in vain : and expert though I am in pain , I ’ d still be preparedto take to the road for such a purpose : since I ’ ve never journeyed , weary , through the sands , among the venomous snakes , and reached you , without my painbeing eased by your great blessing . What a world , what a new immensity , what a paradise it isto which your marvellous enchantmentseemed to lift me ! Where I usedto wander in that strange light , forgetting my earthly state , and everything of our reality , among the dreams , I think , that immortals know . Alas , you are , in the end , a dream , sweet thought , one that adorns truth for the most part : yet a dream , a clear illusion . But you , among nature ’ s happy illusions , are divine : because you are so strong , and vital , that you can endure tenaciouslyagainst truth , and even adapt to truth , and not dissolve , till you meet with death . O my thought , it ’ s true , that you , the only vital part of my days , delightful cause of infinite pain , will sometime be quenched with me in death : you whose signs I feel alive in my soul , such that you ’ ll be my lord for ever . Other noble illusionsoften fail in the faceof truth . The more I turnto gaze at her , of whom I love to speak with you , the greater grows the delight , the greater the delirium , I breathe . Angelic beauty ! Wherever I look , among the lovely faces , they are only painted imagesof your face . It seems to me , you are the sole fount of every other loveliness , of every true beauty . When , since I first saw you , were you not the ultimate goalof my deepest cares ? What part of the daypassed when I did not think of you ? How often did my dreams lackyour sovereign image ? Lovely as a dream , angelic form , in earthly place , in the high realms of the universe , what do I ask for , or hope to seethat is more beautiful than your eyes , or own that is sweeter than thought of you ? 16 . Love And Death ( XXVII ) ‘ Those whom the gods love die young ’ MenanderFate gave birth , at the same moment , to the brothers , Love and Death . The world owns to noneso fine , nor do the stars . From the former , the Good is born , and the greatest pleasure , to be found in the ocean of being : the latter annuls our greatestpain , and all our greatest evil . Often the boy , Love , joys in keeping company , with a beautiful girl , sweet to see , notas cowardly people paint her : and flying together through human lifethey are the wise heart ’ s greatest solace . No heart was ever wiserthan when pierced by love , nor firmerin scorning wretched life , nor so ready to face dangerfor any lord but this one : Love , where you give your help , courage is born , is roused : then the human race is wisein what it does , not as so often , only wise in thought . When a new loving affection is born , in the deepest heart , we feel the languid desire to die , simultaneously in our soul : how , who knows ? But such is the power and true first effect of love . Perhaps the desolation hereterrifies our sight : perhaps a mortal findsthis world uninhabitable , without that new , sole , infinite happinesshis thoughts create : and by reason of that great stormpresaged in his heart , seeks quiet , seeks to reach harbour , driven by desire , that roars and darkens all around . Then , when formidable powerwraps everything about , and invading passion flashes in the heart , how often you , Death , are invoked , with intensedesire , by the troubled lover ! How often at evening , how oftenwhen the weary body is abandoned to dawn , he might call himself blessednever to rise again , or see the bitter light ! And often at the sound of the funeral bellthe dirge that takes the dead to their eternal rest , he envies , from his heart ’ s depths , with many ardent sighs , he who joins the lost in their ancient home . Even the untaught man , the farmer , ignorantof all virtue derived from wisdom , even a shy and timid girl , who once felt her hair stand on endat the name of death , daresto fix her gaze on the tomb , on the winding sheet , with calm constancy , dares to meditate onpoison or the knife , and feel , deep in her mind , the courtesy of death . So love leads his disciplesto death . Yet oftenthe internal struggle is so greata mortal cannot endure its strength , and either the frail body yieldsto those terrible forces , and in that wayDeath prevails , aided by his brother ’ s power : or Love drives them towards the depths , so the unlearned farmer , and the tender girl , fell themselves with violent handwhile the world , to which heaven grantspeace and old age , mocks them . Sweet lords , friendsof the human race , to whom nothing in this vastuniverse compares , and whom no powerbut fate can overcome , may it grant one of youto enter fervid , happy , intelligent minds . And you , lovely Death , whom I ’ ve always called on , and honouredsince my early years , who alone in the world take pity on human troubles , if you have ever been honouredby me , if I have tried to addressthe crowd ’ s ingratitude for your divine status , don ’ t delay , favour thisunfamiliar prayer , close these sad eyes of mineto the light , now , O king of the ages . Whenever the hour falls when you comein answer to my prayer , you ’ ll find mearmed , head high , and firm against fate : not heaping praise on the flailing handstained with my innocent blood , nor blessing you , from cowardice , like the human race of old : I ’ ll throw away every vain hopethat consoles the childish world , every foolish comfort , and I ’ ll not hope for anyother moment , but yours alone : and only wait calmlyfor that day when I lay my sleeping head on your virgin breast . 17 . Bas - Relief on An Ancient Tomb ( XXX ) ( Where The Dead Girl is Shown Departing , and Taking Leave of her Family ) Lovely girl , where are you going ? Who calls you , farfrom your loved ones ? Do you abandon your father ’ s houseso soon , wandering off , alone ? Will youreturn to this threshold ? Will you ever make those who mourn you today , happy again ? Your eyes are dry , and your attitude brave , but you still seem unhappy . It would be hard to tell from your serious aspect , whether your road is pleasantor sorrowful , joyful or sad the place you travel to . Alas , I could neverdecide myself , nor perhaps hasthe world decided , whetheryou should be called hated by heaven , or beloved : wretched or fortunate . Death calls : at the dawn of day , comes the final moment . You ’ ll not returnto the nest you left . You ’ ve leftthe sight of your sweet parents forever . The placeyou go to lies underground : there ’ s your dwelling for all time . Perhaps you ’ re blessed : but he who gazes , thoughtfully , at your fate , must sigh . I think that never to seethe light is best . But , being born , to vanish at that time when beautyfirst displays her limbs and face , and the world beginsto bow down before her from afar : when every hope is flowering , long before truth has flashed its gloomyrays against her joyful brow : and like mist condensing to a fleeing cloud - form on the horizon , as if she had not been , renounce the futurefor the tomb ’ s dark silence , this , though to our intellectit seems best , strikes the heartdeeply , in profound pity . Mother Nature , bewailed and feared , by those of the animal kingdom , you marvel , not worth our praise , who bear and nourish to kill , if it ’ s a mortal illto die before our time , whybring it on innocent heads ? If it ’ s a good , why make this partingmore gloomy , inconsolable , than every other ill , for those who go , and those who live ? Wretched , wherever they gaze , wretched , where they turn or run , this sensitive species ! It pleased you that youthfulhopes of life should be illusions : trouble - filledthe tide of their years : Death their onlyshield against evil : the inevitable goal , the immutable law ruling human life . Ah , after the sad journey why not at least make the ending happy ? Rather than this certain future , the living keep before their eyes , the sole comfortfor our miseries , clothed in black robes , veiled with sad shade , why make the harbour more fearfula sight than ever the waves were ? Given the harsh fate of dyingto which you destine us , we whom you abandon , in our innocence , unknowingly , unwillingly , to life , then he who dies is more enviablethan he who witnesses the deathof those he loves . Yet though it ’ s true , as I fervently believe , that life is pain , and death a gift , who could wish , as indeed he shouldfor the death of those he cares for , himself to still remain behind , diminished : to see the beloved onewith whom he ’ s spent so many yearscarried from the threshold , a farewell with no hope of evermeeting againon this world ’ s roads : then left alone , abandoned on earth , to gaze around , and in familiar placesremember the lost companion ? O Nature , how , ah how , can your heart allowsuch embraces to be loosened , friend from friend , brother from brother , child from father , lover from lover : one dying , the other granted life ? How canyou make such griefour fate , that mortalssurvive a mortal love ? But Naturebestows its care on other things , than our good or ill . 18 . on A Lovely Lady ’ s Image ( XXX 1 ) ( Carved on her Tomb ) You were such , who now are burieddust and skeleton . Placed motionless , helpless , above the earth and bone , mute , gazing at the flight of ages , stands the sole guardianof grief and memory , the imageof lost beauty . That sweet glancethat made men tremble as it gazedat them , motionless , as now : those lips , from whose depths pleasure flowed , as though from a full urn : that neck , once circled by desire : that loving hand , that often , lightly opened , feltthe hand it clasped grow cold : and the breast , at which men visibly paled , once lived : now they are earth and bone : and stone concealsthe sad and shameful sight . So fate diminishes that image , that seemed to usa living vision of heaven . Eternalmystery of our being . one moment , Beauty , the fount of vast , exalted thoughts , ineffable feelings , towers over us , and seemslike a tremulous radianceimmortal nature casts on this arena , the sign and sure hopeof blessed realms and the golden world , of a superhuman fate , granted to our mortal state : next moment , at a light touch , what was but now an angelic face becomes vile , abominable , base , and themarvellous ideal that tookits being from it , vanishesat once from the mind . Infinite desiresand noble visionsare created in the mindby virtue of harmonious knowledge : so that the human spirit wanderssecretly through a sea of delight , as though swimming ardentlyin play through the Ocean : But if a discordant notestrikes the ear , that paradise turns to nothingness in a moment . How does human nature reachso high , if it is merely wretched , frail , dust and shadow ? Yet if it is somehow noble , how can our finest thoughts and actsbe kindled and quenchedfor such slight , ignoble reasons ? 19 . To Spring ( or Of The Ancient Myths ) ( VII ) Because the sun renewsthe injured heavens , and Zephyrus revives the dull air , and the dark shadows of cloudsare driven off , scattered down the valleys ; birds trust their fragile formsto the wind , and the light of daybrings new desire for love , fresh hope , penetrating the woods and throughthe melting frost , to waking creatures : perhaps human spirits , drowned in griefand weariness might remakethe age of beauty , which tragedy , and the blacktorch of truth , consumedbefore its time ? Are Phoebus ’ s raystruly quenched in darknessforever ? Fragrant Spring can you rouse and inspirethis frozen heart that knows old age ’ s bitterness in the flower of youth ? Are you alive , O sacred Nature , are you alive ? Alive , and your maternal voicegathered to an unaccustomed hearing ? Your rivers were once home to the bright nymphs , the liquid founts were placid haunts and mirrors . And the rugged mountain ridges , the tangledwoods ( today the remote haunt of the winds ) trembled to the arcane dance of immortal footsteps : and the shepherdleading his thirsty flock through the flickeringmid - day shadows of the floweringriver - banks , heard the shrill pipingof woodland Pan echoingalong the stream : saw the waves tremble , amazed , and , saw , vaguely , the quiver - bearing goddessdescending into the warm flood , washing the grime and dust of the bloody chasefrom her white flanks and virgin arms . Once , the grass and flowers breathed , and the woods . The gentle airs , the clouds , and the lamp of the sun , were aware of humanity , then , whenthe traveller followed you with intent eyes , Cyprian Planet , in the empty night , you , naked above the hills and shores , his companion on the road , the imageof mortal thought . When , fleeingthe impure towns and deadly anger and shame , men clasped the rugged tree - trunks , deep in dense woods , and thought that living flame surgedthrough the dry veins , leaves breathed : that they clasped in their arms the hidden heartbeatof sorrowful Daphne , or sad Phyllis , or heardClymene ’ s disconsolate daughters weeping for Phaethon , drowned by the Sun in the Italian River . Nor , harsh cliffs , were the mournful soundsof human misery lost as they struck you , while timorous Echo haunted your spaces , not the wind ’ s vain wandering , but a nymph ’ s unhappy spirit , she , whom the weight of love and harsh faterobbed of her limbs . From caves , and naked cliffs , and desolate haunts , she taught a message , her understandingof our high and broken lament , to the arching sky . You too , nightingale , the tale declares , were expert in human fate , you who sing now the coming of the re - born year , and in the deep quiet of the countryside , through the dark silent air , mourn your ancient wrong , an ill vengeance , anger and pity to make the sun grow pale . But your race is unknown to us : grief does not form those varyingnotes of yours , and free of guilt , and so less dear to us , they climb the dark valley . Ah , since the halls of Olympusare empty , and thunder strays blindlyamong dark clouds and mountains , filling guilty or innocent heartswith the same cold terror : and their native landis alien to her children , the sad spiritsshe produces : lovely Naturelisten to the unhappy cares , and unjust fate of mortals , and rekindle the ancient flamein me : if you still live , if there ’ s truly one thing at least in heaven , or on the naked earth , or in the deep sea , that may not pity but observes our pain . Note : The nightingale refers to the myth of Procne , Philomela and Tereus . 20 . Hymn To The Patriarchs ( VIII ) ( Or : The Beginnings Of The Human Race ) And you , sung by your grieving sons , you , glorious fathers of the human race , will be spoken of with praise : dearerto the eternal mover of the stars , and so muchless to be wept for , than we whom a gentlerage produces . The irreparable afflictionsof wretched mortals , born to weep , who find their last day and the darkened tomb sweeter than ethereal light , were not imposed by pity or the directrule of Heaven . And though ancient errordelivered the human race to the tyrannousgrip of disease and misfortune , the cause of your ancient cry , the worse crimesof your children , their unquiet minds , and greater madness raised Olympus ’ s weaponsand the neglected hands of nurturing Natureagainst us : so life ’ s flame was detested , and our birth from the maternal wombwas hateful , and , in violence , despairingErebus emerged from the earth . O ancient father and leader of the human family you first sawthe sun , the glorious fires of the turning spheres , and the fresh verdure of the fields , and watched the breezes wandering through the young meadows : when the cliffs and deserted valleysechoed to the rushing mountain streams , their roar unheard : when the fair future sites of famous peoples , their noisy cities , still unknown , were ruledby peace : and silent and alone the clear rays of Phoebus and the golden moonclimbed the uncultivated hills . Oh , emptyplaces of the earth , untouched by crimeand sad event ! Oh unhappy fatherwhat pain for your offspring , and what a vast chain of bitter eventsdestiny prepares ! See the greedy fieldis stained with a brother ’ s blood , through a brothers ’ murder , in an unprecedented act of anger , and the bright air knows evil wings of death . The fearful exiled fratricide , fleeing the solitary shadows and the secret angerof the winds in the deepest woods , raises the first city roofs , the haunts and kingdom of all - consuming care : and for the first timedesperate contrition , breathless , ill , brings blind mortals together and shuts themin shared shelters : so wicked handsrejected the curving plough , and it was shamefulto sweat in the fields : the idle occupiedthe gates of the wicked : slothful bodiestamed natural vigour , minds were languidand indolent : and weakened humanityaccepted servitude , the ultimate harm . And you , to whom a white dove first broughtthe certain sign of promised hope , from blind air and soaking hills : for whom the drowned sun , rising from ancient evening cloud , painted a rainbow on the dark sky : oh , you rescue the evil generation from the hostile sky and the waves moaningover clouded ridges . The people savedrepopulate the earth , renewing savage affections , wicked works , and the pain that follows . Impious hands mock the inaccessible kingdomof the vengeful sea , and weeping and wickednessare taught to alien shores and other stars . Now I think of you , also , father of the elect , strong , just : and of the generous childrenborn from your seed . I will speak of how youwere sitting , resting , screened by the midday shade , of your tent , on the sweet plain of Mamre , space and pasture for your flocks : of how angels disguised as travellersbrought divine grace : and , O sonof wise Rebecca , how in the eveningby the rustic well in the sweet vale of Haran , haunt of shepherds and of idle hours , love for Laban ’ s lovely daughter pierced you : unconquered Love , that condemned your proudwilling spirit to long exile , and long trouble , and the odious burden of servitude . There was indeed a time ( The Muses ’ songand the cry of fame have not indeed fed the avid crowd on error or empty shadows ) , a timewhen this poor earth was friendly and pleasant and dear to our race , and our fallen ageflowed with gold . True , streams of pure milkdid not flow down the face of native cliffs , shepherds did not drive tigers to the fold with their flocks , or wolves to the springs for their pleasure : but the human race did live then in ignoranceof its fate , and trouble , free of misery : a sweet primal veil of kind illusion was drawnover the hidden laws of nature and heaven : and content with hopeour peaceful ship reached harbour . And a happy race still lives in the vastforests of California , whose heartsare not withered by pale care , whose limbsharsh disease does not waste : the woodsfeed them , the hollow cliffs shelter them , the watered valley refreshes them , death ’ sdark day looms over them unseen . Oh , wise nature ’ s realms are defencelessagainst our sinful daring ! Their shores and cavesand peaceful woods lie open to our un - abatingfury : those violated races learn misery ’ s invasion , unprecedentedgreed : and happiness , fleeing , naked , is pursued , into the western deeps . 21 . Sappho ’ s Last Song ( IX ) Calm night , modest rays of the descending moon : and you , herald of the day , that rise above the cliffs , among the silent woods : you seemed dear and pleasant to my eyes while I was ignorant of fate and the Furies : now no gentle prospect smiles on my despair . For us an unaccustomed joy revivesonly when the dust - filled flow of the south - windblows through the liquid air and overthe quivering fields , and when the chariot , Jupiter ’ s heavy chariot , above our heads , thunders , and splits the shadowy sky . In cliffs or deepest valleys we takejoy in the storm , in the widespread flightof the stricken flocks , or in the soundand conquering fury of water , on the shifting banks of the deep river . Your mantle is lovely , O sacred sky , and you are lovely dew - wet earth . Ah , not one partof that infinite beauty was granted to wretched Sappho by the gods , or pitiless fate . O Nature , I am only a humbleand troubled guest in your proud kingdom , a lover scorned , and I turn heart and eyes in vain , in supplication , towards your graceful form . No sunlit place , nor the dawn light at heaven ’ s gatesmiles on me : the brightly coloured birdssing , but not for me , the murmur of the beechtrees is not for me : and where the bright rivershows its pure flood , beneath the shadeof the weeping willows , it draws backits lithe waters disdainfullyfrom my sliding foot , touchingthe perfumed shores in its retreat . What fault , what wicked excessstained me at birth , that heaven turnedme towards ill and her face from fortune ? How did childhood , when lifeis ignorant of wrong , sin , so that strippedof youth , its flower , my iron - dark thread was wound on the spindle of indomitable Fate ? Incautious wordsspill from my lips : the events of destinymove in hidden ways . All is hidden , except our unhappiness . Neglected childrenwe are born to weep , and our purpose liesin the lap of the gods . Oh the cares , the hopesof our youth ! But the Father gave dreams , sweet dreams eternal dominionover men : virtue in plain dressdoes not shine among brave deedsor learned lines of verse . We die . The worthless veil fallen to earth , the naked spirit will fly towards Dis , erasing the cruel error of the blinddispenser of Fate . And you , live as happilyas any mortal ever lived on earth , you , through whom a long unrequited lovelong loyalty , and the vain furyof implacable desire gripped me . Jupiterhas not sprinkled me with happinessfrom his bitter jar , and my illusions diedwith my childhood dreams . All the happiest days of our youth are gone . Illness follows : old age : and the shadowof icy death . See , Tartarus is leftof all the prizes hoped for , the sweet illusions : and the dark goddess , black night , and the silent shoreconfine the proud intellect . 22 . To Count Carlo Pepoli ( XIX ) Dear Pepoli , how do you endurethis wearisome and troubling sleepthat we call life ? By what hopesis your heart sustained ? In what thoughts , in what happy or irksome works do you employthat leisure your distant ancestors bequeathed youthis heavy and exhausting gift ? All lifeis idle , in every human condition , if all the effort , that is aimed at nothing worthy , and has no powerto realise its intent , is rightly namedidleness . And if I should call the labouringcrowd , seen at tranquil dawn and evening , breaking the soil , or tending crops and herds , idle , I would be right , since their lifeis to sustain life , and life has no valueto the human race of itself alone . The experienced sailor spends daysand nights in idleness : the endless sweatof the workshops is idle : the soldieron watch is idle , and in the danger of war : and the miserly merchant lives in idleness : whatever the care , the sweat , the watches , the dangers , no one gains lovely happinessfor himself or others , though it ’ s all mortal nature desires and searches for . Yet for all the desire that has lead mortalsto be blessed with useless sighingsince the day when the world was bornnature has made a sort of medicine , amongst life ’ s unhappiness , the various necessities , that have to be providedby thought and effort , and the day is full , even if it may not be joyful , for the human family : so that desireis troubled and confused , and has less scopeto disturb the heart . So the creatures , in whose hearts the desire to be happy lives , no less vainly than it does in ours , intent on what is needed for their lives , spend their time less sadly , and less burdened , than us , not condemning the slow hours . But we , who trust to others ’ hands to provide our living , are left with a greater necessity that none but ourselves can supply , and that with pain and tedium : I mean the necessityof getting through our lives : cruel , unconquerablenecessity , that no accumulated wealth , no rich flocks , or fertile fields , no great halls , or purple robes can free the human race from . When one of us , scornful of the empty years , and hating the light above , and inclinedto anticipate slow fate , fails to turna suicidal hand against himself , the harsh sting of insatiable desirethat longs uselessly for happinessmakes him search all Italy for a thousand ineffectual cures that cannot compensate for the one that Nature intends for us . One man is occupied night and daycultivating his clothes and hairstyle , his gestures and bearing , the vanityof coaches and horses , crowded salons , echoing squares and public gardens , gambling , dining and envied dancing : a smile never far from his lips : ah , butdeep in his heart , heavy , fixed , immovable , like a column of steel , eternal tedium sits , against which youth ’ s vigour is powerless , unshaken by sweet words from rosebud lips , or a tender glance , tremblingfrom two dark eyes , the dear glance , the mortal thing most worthy of heaven . Some other , turning to flee our sadhuman fate , crosses the globe , spendinghis time changing countries and climes , wandering seas and hills : and all the confines of space , that the infinite fields of nature entire open to men , he adds to his wandering . Ah , black caresits high on his prow , and in every clime , under every sky , happiness is called toin vain : sadness lives and rules . There are those who choose to pass their time in the cruel work of war , and idly stain their hands with their brothers ’ blood : and those comforted by others ’ pain , thinking to make themselves less sad by making others wretched , and using up the time by doing harm . And those who oppress virtue , wisdom and the arts : and those who trample on their own and other races , troubling the ancient peace of foreign shores , with war , trade , fraud , consuming the life their fate has granted . A gentler desire , a sweeter concernrules you in the flower of youth , the lovelyApril of your years , to some the happiestand best gift of heaven , but heavy , bitter , hostile to one without a country . You are moved and roused to study verse , and rehearse the beauty that appears rare , slight , fugitive in this world , in speech , with what vague imagination and ourown true error , more benign than nature or the gods , produce so richly for us . That man is a thousand times fortunate who does not lose the fallen power of dear imaginings through the years : whom fate allows to keep his youthful heart forever : who in his vigour and in his failing years , beautifies nature with his thoughts , as he once did in his green age , making dead things and the desert bloom . May heaven grant you such : may the flamethat warms your heart today keep youa lover of poetry in old age . I already feelthe sweet deceptions of my early yearsfailing me , and their delightful imagesfade from my eyes , those I so loved , that recalling them , always , to my final hour , will make me desire them , and weep . When my heart is wholly frozen , chilled , and the calm and solitary smileof open fields , the dawn song of the birds , in spring , and the silent moon over the hills and ridges in a clear sky , cannot movemy soul : when every beautyof art or nature seems lifeless and still to me : when every noble feelingevery tender affection is alien , strange : then stripped of my only solaceI will choose other studies , less sweet , on which the thankless residue of a lifeof iron can be based . I will search forthe bitter truths , the hidden destinyof mortal , and eternal things : whythe human race was born , and burdenedwith pain and misery : to what final goalfate and nature drive us : who delights inor benefits from our sorrows : by what rules or laws this mysteriousuniverse moves : on which the wiseheap praise , and to which I pay homage . I ’ ll spend my idle days in thesespeculations : since truth , once known , has its sad delights . And if in reasoning on truth this way , my words proveunpleasant to others , or misunderstood , I ’ ll not grieve , since all my old desirefor glory will be quenched : no longerthat goddess vain , but blinder stillthan chance , or fate , or love . Note : Count Pepoli , of Bologna , was a man of letters and vice - president of the Accademia dei Felsinei . Leopardi recited this poem at one of the meetings of the Academy . 23 . Fragment ( From Simonides I : XL ) Every earthly eventis in Jupiter ’ s power , Jupiter ’ s , O my son , According to his willhe ordains all things . But our blind thought is anxiousand troubled by distant futures , though human fate , since heaven decrees what falls , is to endure from day to day . Lovely hope feeds all hereon sweet illusions , so we weary ourselves in vain : One lives for a brighter day , another a better age , and no one lives on earth whose mind does not dreamthat Pluto god of wealth , and all the gods , will be generous and kind . See how before hope is achievedthe one ’ s overcome by age , the other drawn to dark Lethe by disease : This one by cruel war , and that by the tideof a rapacious sea : another consumedby black care , or twisting the sad nooseround his neck , seeks peace below . A fierce and motley tribe , of a thousand ills , torments and consumes wretched mortals . But in my judgementa wise man , free of common error , should not accept such suffering , nor devote so much loveto sadness and his own harm . 24 . Fragment ( From Simonides II : XLI ) Things human last so short a time : he spoke truethe blind poet of Chios : similar in nature arethe leaves , and humanity . But there are few who takethese words to heart . All haveunquiet hope , the childof youth , to live with them . While the flower of ourgreen age shows bright , the free , proud soulvainly feeds a hundred sweet thoughts , not knowing death or age : in healthand strength a man cares nothing for disease . But he ’ s a fool who cannot seehow swiftly youth beats its wings , how close the cradleis to the pyre . You , about to treadthe fatal pathto Pluto ’ s realms : to present delightcommit brief life . Note . The blind poet of Chios is Homer . 25 . The Dream ( XV ) It was dawn , the sun insinuatedthe day ’ s first light through the balcony ’ sclosed shutters to my blind room . In that moment , when sleep shadowsour eyelids more lightly , more gently , the image of her who first taught meto love , then left me to grieve , stood there , next to me , gazing at my face . She didn ’ t seem dead , only saddened , an image of unhappiness . She stretchedher right hand to my cheek , and sighing said : ‘ Do you still live , and retain any memoryof me ? ’ ‘ Oh my dear , ’ I replied , ‘ Where and how do you come to me , in beauty ? Ah , how I grieved for you , and grieve : I thought you would never know : andit made my grief for you more desolate . But will you leave me again ? I greatly fear it . Now say what happened ? Are you as before ? And what torments youwithin ? ’ She said : ‘ Forgetfulness stiflesyour thoughts , sleep enshrouds them . I am dead , a few moons ago you saw me for the last time . ’ Vastsorrow oppressed my heart at that voice . She said : ‘ I vanished in the first flower of youth , when life is sweetest , and before the heartknows the vanity of human hopeas certain . Mortal sickness has not long to wait for what will free it from all trouble : but the young gain nosolace in death , and cruel is our fatewhen hope is quenched beneath earth . Knowledge of what nature hides is no helpto those innocent of life , and blind griefeasily conquers an immature wisdom . ’‘ Oh dear unfortunate one , be silent , ’ I said , ‘ be silent , such words break my heart . Oh my delight , you are dead then , and I am living , and was it decreedin heaven that your dear and tender bodyshould endure those last sweats , while this wretched one of mine should be untouched ? Oh despite those moments when I thought you no longer lived , that I would never see you again in this world , I still cannot believe . Ah , what is this thing called death ? If only I could know , now , and so protect my defenceless head from fate ’ s atrocious hatred . I am young , but this youth of mineconsumes itself and is lost like old - ageI dread , though it ’ s still far from me . The flower of my youth is littledifferent to age . ’ She said : ‘ We were born to weep , we two , happiness never smiled on our lives : heaven delighted in our troubles . ’ ‘ Now if this eyelid is wet with tears , ’ I replied , ‘ and our parting makes your face pale , and your heart heavy with anguish , tell me : did a spark of love , or pity , ever turn your heart towards this wretched lover , while you lived ? Then , I despaired , but dragged myself , in hope , through daysand nights : now my mind wearies itself with empty doubt . So if sorrow at mydarkened life , even once , oppressed you , don ’ t hide it , I beg you , and the memorywill help me , now our future has beentaken from us . ’ She said : ‘ O unhappy one , be comforted . I did not grudge you pitywhile I was alive , nor now : I was wretched too . Do not complainof it , unlucky child . ’ I cried out : ‘ In the name of our misfortunes , and the love that destroys me , of ourdelighted youth , and the lost hopesof our life , allow me , my dear one , to touch your hand . ’ And she , sadly , gently , held it out to me . Now , as Icovered it with kisses , and held itto my heaving breast , trembling with sweet distress , my face and chest sweating with fever , my voice caught in my throat , my vision shook in the light . Then , fixing her gaze on me , tenderly , she said : ‘ Oh my dear , have you forgottenalready , that I am stripped of beauty ? O , unhappy one , you tremble and burnwith love , in vain . Now is the last farewell . Our wretched minds and bodies are severed for eternity . You are not livingfor me , nor will again : fate has already shattered the loyalty you promised . ’ Then I triedto cry out in agony , and roused myself from sleep , trembling , my eyesfilled with disconsolate tears . She stillstood before my gaze : and in the uncertainrays of the sun , I believed I saw her yet . 26 . The Solitary Life ( XVI ) Now the hen exults with beating wingsin her closed run , and the countrymangoes by the balcony , and the rising sunthrows its tremulous rays on the falling drops of morning rain that wake me , striking softly on my cabin roof . I rise and bless the light cloud , and the first murmur of the birds , the fresh breeze , the smiling slopes : because I ’ ve seen you and I know youtoo well , sad city walls , where hatefollows sorrow as its companion , and Iwill live in sorrow , and so die , and soon ! Though Nature still shows me some rarepity here , how much kinder she wasto me once ! And Nature , you divertyour gaze from the miserable : scorning misfortune and trouble , you serve your queen , happiness . There ’ s no friendor refuge left , in sky or earth , for the wretched , except the knife . Sometimes , I sit in a lonely place , on a slope at the margin of the lake , that is wreathed with silent plants . There , as noon wheels in the sky , the sun paints his tranquil image , the grass and leaves are unbending in the breeze , and no wave wrinkles , no cicada ticks , no bird lifts a feather on the branch , no butterfly flickers , no voice or movementcan be heard or seen , near or far . The deepest quiet grips the banks : then I sit so motionless I almost lose myself , and forget the world : and it seems to memy limbs are so still , no spirit or feelingcan ever stir them again , and their primal calmis merged with the silence of the place . Love , you have flown so farfrom my heart , which once was warm , red - hot rather . Ruin gripped itwith a chill hand , turned it to icein the flower of youth . I recall the timewhen you pierced me . It was that sweet , irrevocable time , when to youth ’ s eyesthe world ’ s unhappy landscape smiles like a vision of paradise . To a youth his heart leaps with virgin hope and desire : and he prepares for the taskof living , as a poor mortal does for a joyful dance . But , Love , I no sooner knew you , than Fateshattered my life , and nothing seemedright for these eyes but endless weeping . Still , when I sometimes meet the faceof a lovely young girl in the open fields , in the silence of dawn , or when the sunshines on roofs and hills and meadows : or when in the placid calm of a summer night , my wandering stepspass a rural village , I contemplate the lonely earth , and hear the quick songof a girl in her hidden room , adding hours of night to her daytime labours : this heart of mine , of stone , beginsto tremble : ah , but it soon returns to iron sleep : so that all gentle feelings are strangers to my breast . O , dear Moon , under whose tranquil raysthe hares dance in the woods : so the huntercurses at dawn when he findsfalse , intricate trails , and error ’ s webleads him away from their forms : welcome , benign queen of night . Your rayspour down among bushes and cliffs , over lonely ruins , and onto the knifeof the pale thief whose ears catchthe sound of wheels and horsesfar off , or a clatter of feeton the silent road : then suddenly , with the rattle of arms , and loud cries , and a dreadful face , he turns the heartof the traveller to ice , whom he shortly leaves , naked , half - dead , among the rocks . You pour your white light on the city limits , on the vile voluptuary , who hugs the wallsof houses and keeps to the secretshadows , and stops , and is afraidof burning lamps and openbalconies . Pouring down on wicked minds , your aspect will always seem benign to me , among these landscapes where you revealto my sight nothing but delightful hillsand open plains . Yet , once , I , innocentthat I was , accused your lovely raysin peopled places , that exposed me to human sight , and exposed human faces to my gaze . Now I ’ ll always praise you , when I watch yousailing through the clouds , or , serene highness of the eternal realms , as you look down on these pale human haunts . You ’ ll often see me , silent and alone , wandering the woods and the green banks , or seated on the grass , content enoughif heart remains , and breath , for me to sigh . 27 . To His Lady ( XVIII ) Dearest beauty , who inspiremy love from afar , who hide your face , except when deep in sleep your image moves my heart , or in fields where the lightof day and nature ’ s smile are brighter : perhaps you blessed that innocentage that is called Golden , or fly as an airy spiritamong men ? Or does greedy fatehide you from us till some later time ? Now no hope is left meof ever gazing at you : unless it may be , when naked and alone , my spirit travels those new pathsto a foreign place . once , in the freshdawn of my dark uncertain day , I thought you were a traveller in this arid land . But nothing on this earthresembles you : and if there were an equalto your face , gestures , spirit , that beautythough similar would still be less . Among all this sufferingthat fate creates for human beings , if anyone on earth loved youas my imagination forms you , he ’ d be blessed in this life : and I see clearly how your lovemight make me seek out praise and virtue , as in my first youth . Now heavengrants no solace for our troubles : and , with you , mortal life would belike that which heaven reveals . Through the valleys , where the songof the weary farmer echoes , and I sit and mournyouthful error that deserts me : and in the hills where I recall , weeping , lost desires , and the lost hopeof my days : thinking of youmy feelings wake . And if I mighthold your noble image , in this dark ageand sinful atmosphere , and be contentwith that vision rather than the truth . If you are one of thoseeternal Ideas , that the eternal mindscorns to clothe in solid form , to endure the pain of our deathly lifeamong fallen bodies , or if you are received in another earth , in the highest circling , among the innumerable worlds , and a starcloser and brighter than the sun illuminates you , who breathe a purer air : accept your unknown lover , in this hymnfrom this world of unhappy and brief days . 28 . Memories ( XXII ) Lovely stars of the Plough , I never dreamedI would return to gaze at you , as before , sparkling above my father ’ s gardens , or meditate on you , from the windowof the same house I lived in as a child , where I saw an end to all my happiness . What imaginings , what fancies the sightof you , the lights of your company , used to create then in my thoughts ! Then I used to sit silent on green grass , spending the greater part of the evening , watching the sky , hearing the croakingof frogs far off in the countryside ! And the fireflies flickering here and therein hedges , flowers , the breeze sighingfrom scented roadways , the cypress trees , that woodland : under my father ’ s roofconversation echoed , and the calm workof the servants . What immense thoughts , what sweet dreams breathed in me at the sight of the distant ocean , those azure hills that I can see from here , and that I hoped to cross one day , imagining secret worlds and arcane delights to support my existence ! Ignorant of my fate , how often I wished to exchange this sadnaked life of mine , for death . I never thought in my heart that in my green youth I ’ d be condemned to waste awayin my barbarous native place , among a vile , loutish race : where learning and wisdom are foreign words , and a cause of mockery and laughter : they hate and ignore me , not just through envy , since they don ’ t thinkme superior to them , but they considerthat I do think so , in my heart , even though I give no sign of that to anyone . Hidden , abandoned here , I spend my time , without love , without life : becoming coarse , perhaps , among this crowd of ill - wishers : this place strips me of all pity and virtue , and makes me scornful of all mankind , oppressed by the herd : and meanwhilethe hours of my dear youth fly by : dearerthan fame and laurels , dearer than the purelight of day , or breathing : I lose you , without delight , uselessly , in this inhuman place , among my troubles , O sole flower of my arid life . The wind comes bringing the soundof the hour striking from the clock tower . I remember how it used to comfort mewhen I was a child , in my darkened room , waiting every night , in inexorable terror , for dawn ’ s sighing . Here there ’ s nothing I see and feel that doesn ’ t stir visions inside me , or fails to make some sweet memory rise . In itself , sweet : but thoughts of the presentbring sorrow , vain desire for the past , and its sadness , and the words : ‘ I was ’. That lodge there , facing the last raysof the sun , those painted walls , the cattlethey picture , and the daylight risingon open country , offered my leisurea thousand delights , while , wherever I was , I had that powerful illusion , speaking with me , at my side . In these old rooms , litby the snow outside , while the windwhistled round the wide casements , our games and our shouting echoed , at that age when the shameful , bittermystery of things appears to us fullof sweetness : the child , like a naïve lover , sees deceptive life , whole and un - tasted , and worshipsthe heavenly beauty he imagines . O hope , hope , pleasant illusionof those first years ! Often in speechI return to you : whom I can ’ t forgetdespite time ’ s changes , and the tideof thoughts and feelings . I knowthat glory and honour are phantoms : joy and goodness mere desire : life , worthless misery , bears no fruit . Yet , however void my years , dark and aridmy mortal state , Fate , I know , robs meof little . Ah , but whenever I think of you again , O ancient hope of mine , and of my first dear imaginings , and then consider my vile , sadlife , and realise that death is what remains of all that hope , I feel my heart shrink , and feelI ’ ll never be reconciled to my fate . And when death , wished for so long , arrives , and when my misfortunesare at an end , when the earth is a foreign vale to me , and the futurevanishes from sight , I ’ ll still remember you : and that vision will still make me sigh , embitter meat having lived in vain , and temper the fatal day ’ s delight with pain . And already in the first tumult of youth , of happiness , and anguish , and desire , I often called on death , and satfor a long time beside the water , thinking of ending hope and griefbelow the surface . Then when a secretillness placed my life in danger , I wept for my youth , and the flowerof my poor days , fading awayin time : and often , late at night , sitting on my bed , sadly creatingpoetry , in the dim lamplight , mourned , with night and silence , the fleeting soul , and , in my weakness , even sang a funeral elegy to myself . Who can remember you without sighs , first threshold of youth , O lovely days , impossible to describe , when young girlsfirst began to smile at a rapturous mortal : everything is smiling as it gathersaround him : envy , not yet roused , or still benign , is silent : and isn ’ t it as if , ( unaccustomed miracle ! ) , the world reaches out its hand to assist him , forgives his errors , applauds his first appearance in life , and bowing low shows it accepts him as a man , and names him so ? Fleeting days ! Vanishing like a gleamof lightning . And what human being everremains ignorant of misfortune , oncethat lovely season is done , when the bestof times , his youth , ah youth , has gone ? O Nerina ! Do I not hear these placesspeak of you ? Could you truly haveslipped from my mind ? Where have yougone , my sweetest one , that all I findof you are memories ? I no longer see youin your native land : that window ’ s desertedfrom which you used to talk with me , from which the starlight is sadly reflected . Where are you , whose voice I no longer hear as I once did , when every remote sound your lips gavemade my face grow pale as it reached me ? Time passes . Your days are gone , my sweet love . You have vanished . To pass through this world is given to others , and to make a home among these fragrant hills . You vanished so swiftly : and your life was likea dream . Here you danced : on your browjoy shone out , and that confident illusion , that light of youth , shone out , till fatequenched them , and you lay there , dead . Ah Nerina , the ancient love reignsin my heart . Whenever I go to dinners , or celebrations , I often say to myself : ‘ Oh , Nerina , you never dress for dinners , or celebrations now . ’ If May returns , when lovers go with branchesfull of flowers , and songs , to their girls , I say : ‘ My Nerina , spring never returns for you , love never returns . With every clear day , every flowered field I see , and every joy I feel , I say : ‘ Nerina no longer feels the joy : she sees neither fields nor sky . ’ Ah , you are gone , my eternal sigh : you are gone , and bitter memory is the companion to all my vague imaginings , all my tender feelings , the dear , sad tremors of my heart . 29 . The Re - awakening ( Il Risorgimento : XX ) I thought the sweet troubles of my first youth were lost , after my fresh springtime : all the sweet troubles , all the tender feelings , of my deepest heart , all that in this worldmakes us glad to feel . What grief and tears werescattered , in that new life , when the pain first endedin my frozen heart ! Every tremor ended , love faded in me , and the sighs diminishedin my icy breast ! I wept for life , deadenedby me , and earth made barren , lockedin eternal cold : empty the day , silent the night , lonelier , darker : the moon quenched for me , the stars quenched in the sky . Yet the old affectionwas the source of weeping : my heart was still alivedeep in my chest . Wearied imaginationsearched for old visions : and my sadnessstill brought its pain . Soon that last griefwas quenched in me , and no strength was left meto mourn any more . I lay there : senseless , stunned , not asking for solace : as if dead , forsaken , my heart abandoned . How different I wasfrom him who once nourishedsuch ardour , lovely error , deep in his soul ! The wakeful swallowsinging in the dawn light , outside my window , did not move my heart : nor in pallid autumn , in the lonely farmlandsthe evening chimes , or the fugitive sun . I saw twilight shinein vain on silent roads , in vain the valley echoedto the sad nightingale . And you , tender eyes , furtive , wandering glances , you , immortal lovegod of gentle lovers , and you bright , nakedhand placed in my hand , you too countered my solid stupor in vain . Robbed of every sweetness , sad : but not troubled , my state was peaceful , my face was serene . I might have wished forthe end of my existence : but all desire was quenched , in my exhausted breast . Like the poor bare remainsof a diminished age , so I lived through the April of my years : O my heart , I sufferedthose ineffable days , that heaven allows us , so brief and so fleeting . Who has roused me nowfrom my deep forgetful peace ? What new power is this , that I feel inside ? Sweet tremors , visions , throbbing , blessed error , surely you are deniedto my heart forever ? Are you really that lonelight of my days ? The affection I lostin earliest times ? In the sky , on green banks , wherever vision gazes , all breathes sadness to me , all gives me delight . The fields , woods and mountainsreturn to life as I have : the fountain speaks to my heartthe ocean speaks to me . Who brings back my tearsafter such long neglect ? And how can the worldappear so changed to me ? Perhaps , O wretched heart , hope turned to you with laughter ? Ah , I shall never seethe face of hope again . Nature ’ s tremors were innatein me , its sweet illusions . My sufferings lulled my inborn powers to sleep . But fate and misfortunedid not annul or conquer : nor unhappy truthwith its darkened face . I know it does not matchmy wandering fancy : I know Nature is deaf to us , and knows no charity . She is not truly careful of us , only our survival : provided we endure griefshe cares for nothing else . The wretched man discoversno pity from mankind : so that in his flightevery mortal scorns him . And this sad age is freeof intellect or virtue : and there ’ s no true concernnow for naked glory . And you , trembling eyes , you , celestial rays , I know you shine in vain , love cannot burn in you . No secret , no intimateaffection can burn there : that white breast hides nota single glowing spark . Rather it mocks atother ’ s tender feelings : disdain is the rewardfor that celestial fire . Yet still I feel the oldknown illusions : and my soul marvelsat its own tremors . In you , my heart , this lastspirit , and ardour is born : and all my solacecomes from you alone . I know that fate and nature , beauty and the world , fail the noble spirit , the gentle and the pure . But if you ’ re alive , poor heart , if you do not yield to fate , then I ’ ll not call her pitiless , she who gave me life . 30 . Consalvo ( XVII ) Consalvo lay close to the end of lifeon earth : he who was once so scornful of his fate : but now no more , since in the firstyears of manhood , a wished - for oblivionnow hung above his head . on that fatal day , he lay abandoned by his dearest friends , as he had been abandoned for so long : since no friend on earth is left , at last , to those who scorn the earth itself . Still , Elvira , famed for divine beauty , was by his side , whom pity had broughtto console him in his lonely state , shewho was always and solely in his mind : knowing her power , knowing a single lookof hers , delightful , a word , longed - for , sweet , repeated a thousand on a thousand times , in his constant thoughts , had always beenthe food and sustenance of this unhappy lover : though she had heard not one word of lovefrom him . Always overpowering fearhad been stronger than deep desire in his soul , since as a boy he had become a slave through excessive love . But at last death broke the former bondsof speech . Sensing the hour that setsmen free , by certain signs , and taking holdof her hand , as she was about to leave him , clasping that whitest of hands tightly , he said : ‘ You leave , Elvira , and the time nowforces you from me , farewell . I do not hopeto see you again . So , farewell now . I renderthe greatest thanks to you that lips could give , for your care . He who can will reward you , if virtue is rewarded by heaven . ’ Shehad grown pale , and her breast heavedon hearing what he said : since human heartsare always oppressed with grief when anyone , even a stranger , leaves this world and saysfarewell forever . And she wished to contradictthe dying man , hiding the approach of death . But he prevented her speaking , and spoke again : ‘ Death comes to me , as you know , like one desired , prayed for many times , and not feared : and this day of my deathseems joyful . It weighs on me , it ’ s true , that I ’ m losing you forever . Ah , I part foreverfrom you . My heart breaks at those words . Never to see those eyes again , or to hearthat voice ! Tell me : Elvira , will you notgrant me a kiss before you abandon meto eternity ? one kiss alone for a whole existence ? A grace requested should not be denied a dying man . Nor will I ever boastabout that gift , I , half - dead , whose lipswill be closed in a while , eternally , by a strange hand . ’ Having spoken , he fixed his cold lips , with a sigh , in supplication , on the hand he adored . The loveliest of women remained motionlessand thoughtful in aspect , and fixed her gaze , sparkling with a thousand graces , on thatof the unhappy man , where a last tearglistened . Nor had she the heart to scornhis request , and render the last goodbyebitter with denial : rather she was overcomeby pity for that ardour , well known to her . And that heavenly face , and that mouth , desired so deeply , for so many yearsthe goal of all his dreams and sighs , gently approaching the suffering face , discoloured by its mortal affliction , pressed kiss after kiss , in utter kindnessand from deep pity , on the trembling lipsof that anxious , and enraptured lover . What became of you then , Consalvo ? How did life , death and misfortune appearas he was dying ? With beloved Elvira ’ s hand that he still held , pressed to a heartbeating with the last tremors of love and death , he said : ‘ Ah , Elvira , my Elvira ! Then I amstill on earth : those lips were trulyyour lips , and I grasp your hand ! It seems like a dying vision , a dream , a thing incredible . Ah . Elvira , how muchI owe to death ! My love has not been hiddenfrom you for all time , not from you norothers : truly love cannot be concealedon earth . My actions , my troubled look , my eyes had made it clear to you : but my words had not . The infinite love that governs my heart would still have been silent , forever , if dying had not made me bolder . Now I shall die content with my destiny , and no longer regret that I sawthe light of day . Life was not in vain , since its was granted to my mouthto kiss your mouth . Rather I thinkmy fate has been happy . This worldowns two lovely things : love and death . Heaven brings me one in the flowerof youth : and in the other I considermyself fortunate . Ah , if you had only , just once , calmed and requitedmy great love , then earth would have changed to paradise foreverto my altered eyes . I would even have suffered old age , abhorrent old age , with a quiet heart , since the memoryof one moment would have sufficedto endure it : and to say : “ I have been happy , with more than all others ’ happiness . ” Ah , but heaven does not allow earthly natureto be so blessed . No one is permittedto love with such joy . And yet I wouldhave had the power to endure the whipsof the executioner , the wheel , the fires , flying to them from your arms : and evengone down to dreadful everlasting darkness . Oh , Elvira , Elvira , oh , happy is he , ohblessed above the immortals , to whomyour smile of love ’ s revealed ! Next is he who sheds his lifeblood for you ! It is allowed , allowed to mortals , notjust a dream as I long thought , allowedfor us to know happiness . I knew itwhen I first gazed at you . It happenedthrough my dying . And even in such painI cannot find it in my heart to condemn this fatal day . Now you are blessed , my Elvira , and your face adorns the earth . No onewill love you as I loved you . No suchlove to equal it will be born . Ah , how often , how often , wretched Consalvo , called out to you , how long he grieved , and wept ! How pale I grew , at Elvira ’ s name , frozen at the heart : how I used to tremble at the harsh stone of your threshold , at that angelic voice , at the aspectof your brow , I , who do not fear death ! But breath and life grow less at the soundof love . My time has passed , and it will not be granted me to recall this day . Elvira : farewell . Your image vanishes from my heart at last , with my vital flame . Farewell . If this love of mine was not a burden to you , send a sigh towardsmy tomb , tomorrow , when night falls . He fell silent : and in a moment his spiritebbed with the sound : and his first day of happiness fled from sight , before the dark . 31 . Aspasia ( XXIX ) Aspasia , your image sometimes entersmy thoughts . Either it gleams fugitively , in strangers ’ faces , in busy places : or the glorious vision appears on empty plainsunder the clear sky , silent stars , like a sweet harmony echoedin my almost amazed soul . Adored so much , you gods , and onceso much my delight and torment ! I neverscent the fragrance of a flowery bank , or the perfume of blooms in a city street , without seeing you as you were that day , enclosed in your charming apartment , that was full of fresh petals of spring , dressed in the colours of dark violet , your angelic form revealed to me , curving from under gleaming furs , and you surroundedby secret voluptuousness : while you , clever seductress , showered ferventechoing kisses on the curved lipsof your children , often stretching outyour white neck , and clutching them , they not knowing why , to your hidden , desirable breast , with a gentle hand . A new heaven and earth appeared , to my mind , and an almost divine light . So it was that your arm , with living force , drove that arrow into my defended heart , which , once fixed there , I carried , crying out , till the sun returned twice in its circling . Lady , your beauty seemed to melike a divine light in my mind . Beautyand music have a similar effect : often both reveal the high mysteryof unknown Elysium . Then the wounded man must live desiring that childof his own mind , that image of love , containing so much of the Olympiansin itself : in all its looks , and dress , and speech , equal to that lady the rapturous lover desires , and thinks in his confusion that he loves . Now indeed he serves and loves the idea , and not the lady whose body he embraces . He is angered at last to realise his error , his mistaken objective , and often , wrongly , blames his lady : feminine understandingseldom reaches to that exalted image : woman cannot conceive or even beginto understand what her own beauty can inspire in a generous lover . She holdsno similar concept in her slender brow , and , in the vital flashes of her glances , man is deceived , wrong to hope , wrong to demand deep feelings , strangeand more than human , in one who in allher nature is less than man . Since , just as her limbs are softer and more tender , so her mind is less capable and weaker . So , Aspasia , you were never able to imagine what you inspired for a time in my mind . You never knewwhat immeasurable love , intense pain , what unspeakable tremors and deliriumyou stirred in me : and there will never bea moment when you could understand . In the same way , the musician cannot conceive what he creates , with hand or voice , in his listeners . That Aspasia , whom I loved , is dead . once the object of my whole life , sheis lost forever : except when she returns from time to time , then vanishes , a dear ghost . But you live on , not merely beautiful , but lovelier it seems to me than all others . Only the fire born from you is quenched : since I loved not you but that Goddesswho once had life , now burial , in my heart . I adored her for so long : her heavenly beautypleased me so , that though I was clearlyaware from the first moment of what you were , your arts and wiles , when I saw her lovely eyes in yours , I desired you while she lived , not deceived , but driven , by my pleasurein that sweet resemblance , to suffera long and bitter slavery for you . Boast of it now , as you may . Say you were the only one of all your sex to whom I submittedto bow my noble head , to whom I willinglygave my indomitable heart . Say you werethe first and I hope the last , it ’ s true , to seemy brow bend in supplication , fearfulbefore you , trembling ( I burn to repeat itwith shame and scorn ) , beside myself , hanging slavishly on all your wishes , every word , each action , paling at yoursuperb disdain , my face glowing at somesign of kindness , changing my colourand looks at every glance . The spell broke , and my chains were shattered too , and fellto the ground : and I was happy . And thoughI ’ m filled with tedium , I ’ m content , after such long slavery , such madness , to embrace freedom and sense . And thougha life devoid of affection , and noble illusion , is like a midwinter night empty of stars , it ’ s my solace and my revenge for a fatethat ’ s hard enough for me , that idle and immobile on the grass I can gazeat sea and land and sky , and I can smile . 32 . Fragment ( Alcetas and Melissus : XXXVII ) Alcetas : Listen , Melissus : I ’ ll tell you a dreamI had tonight , that comes to mind onseeing the moon again . I was standing at the window that faces the meadow , gazing at the sky : and suddenly , look , the moon broke loose : and it seemed the nearer it came in its fallthe bigger it grew : till it landedwith a bang in the midst of the meadow : and it was the size of a bucket , and speweda shower of sparks , that hissed as loudas a glowing coal when you plunge itin water , and quench it . Just like that , the moon , I say , in the midst of the meadow , quenched itself , darkening , little by little , and all the grass around was smoking . Then gazing at the sky , I saw a sort ofgleam was left , a scar or a gaping hole , it might have torn away from : so thatit made me shiver : and I ’ m still shaking . Melissus : You ’ re right to worry , it ’ s likely , that the moon would fall in your field ! Alcetas : Who knows ? Don ’ t we often see a star fallin summer ? Melissus : There are so many stars up thereno harm if one or two of them fall , there ’ s thousands left . But only onemoon in the sky , and no one ’ s everseen it fall , except in dreams . 33 . Fragment ( Separation : XXXVIII ) I who wander before this thresholdcall in vain on rain and tempestthat they might keep her here with me . Surely the wind roared in the forest , among the clouds the thunder roaring , ‘ ere dawn was in the heavens shining . O dear clouds , O sky , O earth , O branches , my lady now departs : have pity , if everwas pity in this world for wretched lovers . O storm , now stir yourself , O rain - cloudsnow gather yourself to overwhelm me , until the sun bears day to other lands . Clear sky , the dying winds , on every handthe leaves and grasses rest , the cruel sundazzles me with light , filled with tears . 34 . Fragment ( Turned to Stone : XXXIX ) The rays of light were dying in the west : the cottage - smoke was motionless , stillthe sound of village dogs , and people : when she , intent on lovers ’ meeting , found herself deep in a landscapehappier , more charming than all others . There the moon spread all its brightness , through every level , and turned the treesto silver , that wreathed the place around . The branches were sighing in the wind , and weeping ever , with the nightingale , a stream within the wood made sweet lament . The sea shone in the distance , and the land , the forest , and the summits , one by one , of all the mountain - tops were revealed . The darkened valley lay in tranquil shadow , and the moonlight ’ s dew - wet brightnesscovered the little hills all around . The lady took her lonely way in silenceand felt the breeze filled with fragrance , passing across her face , so gently . Vain to ask if she were happy : she took pleasure in the vistas , and the great good her heart promised . O sweet serene moments , how you vanish ! What delights us here , except our hopes , never lasts for us , or even lingers . See the night troubled , and then darken the face of heaven that was so lovely , and all her pleasure turn to fear . A storm cloud , the herald of the cyclone , rose from behind the mountain , deepened , so the moon and stars were hidden . She saw it spread on every sideand , gradually , mount through the air , to form a sort of mantle overhead . The little light there was grew fainter : and in the wood the wind was rising , the wood that was her happy destination . Every moment the wind grew stronger , till all the birds , awake , in their fear , fluttered about among the leaves . And the gathering cloud descendedtowards the shore , till one edge touchedthe mountain , the other edge the sea . Now all was sunk in darkness ’ s lap , and the rain began its beating , the sound increasing as the cloud neared . The lightning flashed in a fearful mannerbehind the clouds , making her eyes blink , the earth was gloomy , and the air reddened . Wretchedly , she felt her body tremble : the thunder rumbled with the same echoas torrents flowing downward from the heights . She paused sometimes , and gazed in terrorat the darkened air , and hurried on , her hair and robes streaming out behind her . So she breasted the harsh tempest , that sighed against her face and scatteredthose icy drops of water through dark air . Like a wild beast thunder assailed her , roaring horribly without ceasing : all the while the rain and wind grew stronger . And it was terrible to see around her , dust and leaves , stones and branches flying , and sounds the heart fears to imagine . She hid her eyes against the lightning flashesthat wearied and strained her sight , and clutchingher robes to her , sped faster through the storm . But the lightning still blazed in her face so brightly , that at last she stood motionless in fear , and all her courage ebbed away . Then she turned back . And at that momentthe lightning ceased , the night grew dark , the thunder quietened , the wind was still . All was silent : and she had turned to stone . 35 . To Italy ( I ) O my country , I see the walls , archescolumns , statues , lone towers of our ancestors , but I do not see the glory , I do not see the iron and the laurel in whichour forefathers were clasped . Now , defenceless , you show your naked breast and brow . Ah , how wounded , what blood and bruises ! Oh how I see youloveliest of ladies ! I ask the skyand the earth : tell me , tell me : who reduced her to this ? And worse , imprisoned both her arms in chains : so with loosened hair , without a veil , she sits on the ground , neglected , disconsolate , hiding her facebetween her knees , and weeping . Weep , my Italy , with good reason , you , born to outdo nations , in good fortune and in ill . If your eyes were two living fountainsyour weeping would be unequalto your hurt and your disgrace : once a lady , now you ’ re a poor servant . Who can speak or write of you , remembering your past glories , and not say : ‘ Once great , you are so no longer ’? Why ? Why ? Where is the ancient power , where the weapons , courage , and endurance ? Who lowered your sword ? Who betrayed you ? What art or effortor superior forcestripped you of your cloak and laurel wreath ? How did you fall , and when , from such heights to such depths ? Does no one fight for you ? Not one of your own defend you ? To arms , arms : I aloneI ’ ll fight , I ’ ll fall , alone . Heaven , grant that my bloodmight set Italian hearts on fire . Where are your sons ? I hear the sound of weaponsand the wagons , and the voices , and the drums : your sons are fightingon a foreign field . Listen , Italy : listen . I see , oh , around me , the swell of troops and horsemen , smoke , dust , the glitter of swords , like lightning in the mist . Surely you ’ re neither comforted nor willing foryour trembling sight to witness so dubious a fate ? Why should the youth of Italyfight in such fields ? O powers , that Italians should fight for another country . O wretch , lost in war , not for his homeland and a loyal wife , and beloved sons , but at the hands of another ’ s enemies , for another ’ s race : who cannot say in dying : ‘ Dear land of my birth , see , how I render the life you gave me . ’ Oh blessed , and dear and fortunatethose ancient days when our peoplerushed to die in ranks for their country : And you , O narrow pass , honoured and glorious for ever , where Persia and fate were not strong enoughfor a few brave and generous spirits ! I think your grass and stone and wavesand mountains , tell the passer - bywith indistinct voiceshow the unconquered ranks of corpsessacrificed for Greececovered all that shore . Then Xerxes , cruel and cowardly , fled over the Hellespontto be mocked to the last generation : and Simonides climbedthe hill of Antela , where the sacred bandin dying made themselves deathless , to gaze on the earth and sea and sky . And both cheeks wet with tears , with beating heart , and stumbling feet , he took his lyre in his hand : ‘ You , most blessed of all , who each offered yourself to the enemy lance , for love of her who gave you to the light , you the Greeks revered , the world admired , what was that love so great that ledyoung men to war and danger , what love drew them to their bitter fate ? How , sons , could you find such joy , in that last moment , when smilingyou rushed to the harsh , sad pass ? Each of you seemed like one who goes to dancenot die , or goes to a glorious feast : but dark Tartarus awaited you , and the dread waves : no wife or child accompanied youwhen you died , on that cruel shore , without kisses , without grief . But not without deep hurt to the Persians , and eternal anguish . Like a lion in a herd of bullsthat leaps on the back of one , and tearsits back with its teeth , and bites its flanks or thighs , so the anger and courage of Greek heartsraged amongst the Persian ranks . See the horses and riders levelled , see where the shattered tents and wagonsblock the flight of the defeated , and the tyrant , pale , escaping , runs with the leaders : see how the Greek heroes drenchedand stained with barbarous blood , bringing infinite grief to the Persians , fall one against the other , graduallydefeated by their wounds . Oh live , live , you blessed ones , while the world can speak and write . The stars stripped from the sky , falling to the sea , will sooner be drowned , hissing , in the deep , than our love for yoube past and done . Your tomb ’ s an altar : where the motherscome to show their little ones the glorioustraces of your blood . See how I bend , O blessed ones , to the soil , and kiss the turf and stones , that will be praised , famous for ever , from pole to pole . Ah if only I were with you , below , and the kind earth was moistened by my blood . If fate ’ s opposed , and will not consentthat I fall in war , and close my dying eyes , for Greece , then , if the powers above so will , may that lesser fame , of your poet , the future may bring , endure as long as yours shall endure . ’ Note : Leopardi contemplates the Italian troops in Napoleon ’ s armies , and then recalls the ancient Greek heroes of Thermopylae and Salamis who repulsed the Persians . 36 . on the Proposed Dante Monument in Florence ( II ) Because our peoplesheltering under the white wing of peace , will never see the Italian spirit freedfrom the bonds of ancient sleepuntil this unhappy land returnsto the example set by her early days , take care , O Italy , to honour those past , since youare widowed of such men today , when there ’ s none worthy of honour . Turn , and gaze , O my homeland , at that vast crowd of immortals , and weep , and be scornful of yourself , since grief without scorn is foolish now . Turn , and be ashamed , and rouse yourself , and spur yourself onby thinking of our ancestors , our children . The eager visitor , foreign in looksand understanding and speech , would indeed search the soil of Tuscany to findwhere that poet lies through whose verseHomer is not unique . And he would learn , ah shame , not only that his ashes and naked boneare still exiled , after their burial , in foreign earth , but there is not a stone to him , for whose virtues all the world honours you , Florence , within your walls . Oh you compassionate ones , through whomsuch sad and base dishonour will be erased ! Noble , generous ones , you ’ ve undertaken a fine labour , and your love will be repaid , by those whom love of Italy inspires . Love of Italy : oh dear friends , may love of this wretched land spur you on , she , towards whom loyalty nowis dead in every heart , so that the skygrants us bitter days after fair ones . Oh , my sons , may pity , grief and angerat the pain that bathes her cheeks and veil , give you courageand crown your efforts . What words or song are appropriatefor you , who give not only true care and thought , but labour , and display the eternal merit of artistry and the hand ’ s skill and virtue , in this sweet enterprise ? What verses can I send you that might havethe power to kindle fresh lightin your heart and burning spirit ? The great subject will inspire you , a blade to prick and pierce your breast . Who could describe the tide and stormof your fury or your deep emotions ? Who could paint your dazed ｅxpression , the lightning of your eyes ? How could a mortal voice capturethe measure of divine things ? ‘ Be far away , profanity , far from me ’. OhItaly , what tears have been denied a noble monument ! How can it die , how or when can your glory be erased by time ? O , dear divine arts , ever - living : you , by whom our wrongs are sweetened , a solace to our unfortunate race , intent on honouring Italian virtueamong the ruins of Italy . See , I also wantto honour our grieving mother : I bring what I canjoining my song to your work , seated where your chisel gives life to marble . O glorious father of Tuscan verse , if news of things on earth , of her you raised so high , ever reaches your shores , I know you feel no joy for yourself , since bronze and marble are less enduringthan wax and sand , compared with the fameyou left among us : and if you ’ ve everbeen , or shall be , absent from our minds , I hope our ills will grow , if they can grow , and your people weep foreverat a wholly darkened world . But you will be happy , not for yourself , but for your poor country , if everthe example of her ancestorsrouses her sick and slumbering sonswith such virtue that they raise their heads a moment . Ah , what long torment you seeafflicting her , who was so troubledat saying farewell to youwhen you rose again to Paradise ! She must seem so abased to you todaywho was a fortunate and royal lady then . She ’ s so wretched nowthat , stunned , you can ’ t believe it . I ’ m silent about other enemies and sorrows , but not the most recent and the cruellest , through which your country has seenthe depths of night touch her threshold . Blessed are you , fatednot to live through such horrors , who have not seen Italian womenin the arms of barbarous soldiers : not seen enemy weapons in foreign furysack , and lay waste , town and country : not seen divine works of Italian skilldragged to servitude beyond the Alps , trains of wagons filling roads of grief : the harsh gestures and the proud commands : not heard the insults , and the evil voiceof freedom that delivers them , among the noise of chains and whips . Who did not grieve ? What did not suffer ? What was left untouched by those felons ? What temple , or altar , or crime ? Why were such perverse times ours ? Why were we destined to be born , orwhy were we not destined to die first , bitter fate ? We ’ ve been forced to seeour country made servant , made slave , her virtue erodedby the biting file , with no aidand no comfort given usto ease at all the pitiless ills that tore her . Ah , dear one , we have not given our blood , our life for you : and I am not dead of your cruel fate . There is anger and pity in our hearts : many of us have fought , diedbut not for dying Italy , no : for her oppressors . Dante , if you do not feel scorn , you must have altered from what you wereon earth . Ah , worthyof a better death , Italians lay dyingon the foul Russian plains , and air , sky , men and beasts made fierce war on them . They fell , squadron after squadron , half - clothed , bloodstained , exhausted , the ice the only sheet for their bodies . Then , drawing their last breath , remembering their longed - for mother , said : ‘ Oh if we ’ d been conquered by steel , and not by cloud and wind , but for you , our homeland . See , we are far from you , when time should be smiling sweetly on us , ignored by everyone , dying for those who are destroying you . The northern wastes , the hissing woods , were witness to their sorrows . They reached such a passthe abandoned corpses , unburied , on the dread ocean of snow , were torn apart by wild creatures , and the names of the noble and the brave , will always be lost among thoseof the cowardly and base . Dear spirits , rest in peace , though your misfortuneis eternal : and may it be your solacethat you will have no solacein this or any future age . Sleep in the clasp of your immense affliction , o true sons of herwhose supreme hurtonly your hurt can equal . Your country does not complainof you , but those who sent youto war against her , so that she weeps most bitterlyand confounds her tears with yours . Oh that pity for her who dimsall others ’ glory , might be born in the heart of onewho might raise her , dull and weary , from so dark and deep a chasm ! O glorious spirit , say : is love for your Italy dead ? say : is the fire that burned you quenched ? say : will the myrtle never be renewedthat eased our troubles for so long ? Will our wreaths be scattered on the earth ? Will no one ever riseto equal you at all ? Are we lost forever ? Is our shame without limits ? While I have life in me I ’ ll cry : ‘ Turn to your ancestors , you broken branches : gaze at these ruins , words and paintings , marbles , temples : think what earth you tread : and if the lightof these examples does not stir you , why linger ? Rise and go . This seedbed , this school of great spiritsis no place for such decayed morals : if she ’ s filled with cowards , she were better widowed and alone . ’ 37 . To Angelo Mai ( III ) ( On His Discovering A Copy of Cicero ’ s De Re Publica ) Ardent Italian , do you never tireof raising our ancestorsfrom the tomb ? Of bringing themto speak to this dead age overcastwith such clouds of boredom ? Why do they cometo our ears so strongly now , so often , those ancient voices of ours , mute for so long ? Why so manyresurrections ? In a fecund lightning - flashtheir pages come : for this age alonethe dusty cloistershave kept safe the sacred , generouswords of our ancestors . What courage , zealous Italian , does fate inspire in you ? Or perhaps fate fights with mortal courage in vain ? Surely it must be by the gods ’ high counsel , when our desperate neglectis duller and deeper , each moment , almost , that strikes us with our ancestors ’ fresh calls . The heavens are stillfaithful to Italy : some immortalstill cares for us : and since now or never is the timeto trust ourselves to the disused powers of our native Italy , we hear how great the clamour isfrom the tombs , and why the soil revealsthese forgotten heroes , asking at this late hour if youdelight , our country , in cowardice . O glorious one , do you still nourishhopes of us ? Are we not wholly ruined ? Perhaps the future ’ snot unknown to you ? I am distraught , with no refuge from grief , what will beis hidden from me , and what I seeis such that it makes hope seema folly and a dream . Noble spirits , a foul , dishonourable crew succeedto your place : in your blood , every worth of work or word is mocked : no longer shame or envyof your lasting fame : neglectsurrounds your monuments : and wehave become a base example for future ages . Noblest of minds , now no one else caresabout our high ancestry , it falls to you , on whom fate breatheskindly , to you , to offer up with both handsthose former times , when the ancients raisedtheir heads out of dark oblivion , with the buried arts , those godlike ancestors to whom naturespoke without unveiling , in whom was enclosedthe generous calm of Rome and Athens . Oh ages , oh ages lost in eternal sleep , when Italy ’ s ruinwas incomplete , when we disdainedbase idleness , and the wind in flightdrew sparks more intensely from this soil . Your sacred ashes were still warm , Dante , unconquered enemyof fortune , to whose grief and scornHell was friendlier than earth . Hell : is that not a better placethan this ? And the sweet stringsstill trembled , Petrarch , unhappy lover , from the touchof your hand . Ah , Italian poetrywas born in sadness . Yet the illsthat grieve us are lighter and hurt lessthan the boredom that drowns us . Oh you , blessed ones , to whom life was tears ! Irritation binds our swaddling bands : for us , by the cradleand above the tomb , sits motionless nullity . While all your life , Colombus , ardent son of Liguria , was with stars and sea , beyond the Pillars of Hercules , and landswhere men thought they heard the waveshiss as they quenched the sun , committedto the infinite swell , you found the raysof fallen Sol once more , and the daylightborn again there , as ours merged with the deep : and , overcoming all Nature ’ s barriers , an immense and unknown land was the gloryof your voyage , and your returnwith all its risks . Ah , but the world does notgrow greater by being known , it grows less , and the sounding air , the kindly earth , the seaseem vaster to the child than the learned man . Where have our happy dreams gone , the unknown harboursof unknown peoples , the diurnal houses of the stars , the young Aurora ’ sremote bed , and the hidden nocturnal sleep of the greatest planet ? See they vanish in a moment , the world ’ s captured on a flimsy chart : see , all ’ s the same , and only nothingnessgrows by discovery . O dear imaginings , you ’ re denied us when truth arrives : our minds separatefrom you forever : the years part usfrom your first stupendous powers : and the solace for our pain disappears . You , Ariosto , meanwhile , were born to sweet dreams , and the primal sun , shoneon your face , carefree singer of love and arms , who filled life with happy illusions , in an age less sad than ours : Italy ’ s new hope . O chambers , O towers , O ladies , O cavaliers , O gardens , O palaces , thinking of you , my mind is lost in a thousand empty pleasures . Vanities , lovely follies , and strange thoughts , filled human life : what remains , now the leaves are stripped from things ? only the certaintyof seeing all is empty , except sadness . O Tasso , Tasso , then heaven preparedyour excellent mind for us : weeping and little else for you . Oh sad Torquato ! The sweet songcould not solace you , or melt the iceyour soul possessed , once warmbut chilled by hatred , fouledby the envy of tyrant and citizen . Love , Amor , abandoned you , that last deceptionof our life . Nothingness seemed real , a solid shade to you , and the worldan empty wasteland . Your eyes were not raisedto tardy honours : the last hour was mercynot ruin for you . He who knows our illsasks for death and not a laurel wreath . If you wish for anguish , return , return to us , rise from the mute and melancholy tomb , O sad example of misfortune . Our lifegrows worse than that which seemedso wicked and so dark to you . O dear one , who will sympathise with youwhen no one cares for any but himself ? Who , today , would not call your mortal anguishfoolish , now everything great and rareis called madness : when something worse than envy , indifference , greets the highest ? O whowhen measure rather than poetry reigns , would offer you the laurel wreath once more ? O unfortunate spirit , from your timeuntil now only one Italianwith a famous name has risenabove his shameful and cowardly age , Alfieri , the fierce Piedmontese , to whomheaven , not this waste and arid land of mine , gave a heart of manly courage : he alone , unarmed ( ardent memory ! ) made waron tyrants through the drama : the worldat least was given that pitiful conflict , that vain field for impotent anger . He was the first to enter that arena , and no one followed , since now neglectand brutish silence have wholly crushed us . He passed his entire life , immaculate , angry and disdainful , and death saw him escape the worst . Vittorio , this was not the place or timefor you . Other ages , other regionsare needed for noble minds . Nowwe live content with inaction , led by mediocrity : the wise have fallenand the crowd have risen to form this single spacewhere the world is levelled . O famous explorer , go on : wake the dead , now that the living are asleep : arm the mutetongues of former heroes : so that , at last , this age of mud may either stir to life , and riseto noble action , or sink in shame . Note : Angelo Mai ( 1782 - 1854 ) was the custodian of the Vatican Library from 1819 , and a discoverer and editor of ancient manuscripts . Vittorio Alfiere ( 1749 - 1803 ) was a poet and playwright . 38 . For The Marriage of His Sister Paolina ( IV ) Leaving , at last , the silencesof your native nest , and the blessedshades , and the ancient illusion , heaven ’ s gift , that , to your eyes , enhances these lonely shores , fate draws you to the noise and dust of life : my sister , you learn the shameful state harsh skies prescribe for us , you , who in a graveand mournful timewill add unhappy children to sad Italy . Provide strong examplesto your offspring . Cruel fate denieshelpful breezesto human virtue , nor can a pure soul live in a frail breast . You will have wretchedor cowardly sons . Choose the wretched . Corrupted custom sets a vast gulfbetween fate and worth . Ah , the childborn today , in the twilightof mankind , acquires its life and senses too late . Birth is fate ’ s : yours the sovereigncare of the heart , that your sons will not grow to be friends of fortune , or playthings of base fearand hope : then the future ageswill call you happy : for ( sinful customof false idle slaves ) dead , we praise the virtue we scorned alive . Ladies , our country expectsmuch from you : and the sweet raysof your eyes were not granted their powerto tame steel and fire , in scorn , or to harmthe human race . The wise and strong actand think according to your judgement : and all that the sun ’ s bright chariot circles bows to you . I ask you the reasonfor this age of ours . Is it your handsthat quenched the sacred fireof our youth ? Our nature thinnedand broken by you ? The mindsleeping , the will ignoble , our native courage lackingin muscle and sinew : is yours the blame ? Love , if we think truly , is the spurto noble actions , and beauty the teacherof deep affections . That spirit must be severedfrom love whose heart ’ s core does not rejoice when the winds war together , and Olympusgathers the clouds , and the thunder of the stormstrikes the mountain . O brides , O virgins , I think that hewho flinches from danger , unworthyof our country , and sets his hearthis common affections on base things , moves you to hatred and scorn : if women ’ s hearts burn to lovemen , and not mere children . May you hate to be knownas mothers of a cowardly race . May your childrengrow used to bearing the pain and griefof virtue , and scorning and condemningall that this shameful age prizes and adores , live for their country , learning its noble deeds , and what this land owes to their ancestors . Just as the sons of Spartagrew to honour Greece , among the memories and fameof ancient heroes : till the young bride strapped the sword to her dear one ’ s side , only to loosen her dark hairover his bloodless naked corpse , returned to her on his intact shield . Virginia , your soft cheektouched by the all - powerful handof beauty , and your noble disdain , troubled the foolish Lord of Rome . You were pure , and were at that stagewhere sweet dreams summon , when your father ’ s harsh steel piercedthat white breast , and willingly you descendedto Erebus . ‘ O father , ’ she said , ‘ let timeloosen and unmake my limbs , preparea tomb for me , before an impioustyrant ’ s bed possesses me . And if Rome gains life and strengthfrom my blood , let me expire . ’ O generous one , though the sunshone with a greater splendour on youthan it does today , let your prizeand solace be that tomb your sweet native landhonours with tears . See how the Roman people , alight with a new anger , gather round your remains . See the dustbefoul the tyrant ’ s head : and freedom flarein forgetful hearts : and ardent Roman armsadvance over defeated landsfrom the dark pole to the torrid zone . So a woman ’ s fatestirs eternal Romeonce more , from its deep slumber . Note : Virginia was killed by her Roman father to save her from a forced marriage to Appius Claudius ( who in 451 BC helped give Rome its first legal code , but was later perceived as a would - be tyrant ) . The events caused an uprising when the Decemviri ( the Commission of Ten Men ) were overthrown . 39 . To A Winner In The Games ( V ) Blessed youth , know the face of gloryand the joyful voices , and how a hard - won virtue surpasseseffeminate idleness . Listen : listen , generous champion ( your courage setsthe reward of your fame against the swift flow of the years ) listen and lift your heart towards noble desires . The arena , and the stadium echo for you , and trembleas popular applause calls you to glory . Today , our beloved countryprepares to renew the ancient exemplarsin you , resplendent in your youthfulness . It was not he who gazed stupidly at the Olympian course , naked athletes , and the gymnasium ’ s rigour , without being stirred to emulationby the lovely palm and the crown , who stained his handwith barbarians ’ blood at Marathon . Such as perhaps had washed the dusty flanksand manes of his conquering team in the Alpheus , and now led Greek standards and Greek spearsagainst the pale swarms of weary fleeing Persians : till the wide banks and servile shores of Euphratesechoed with mournful cries . Is it vanity that rouses and freesthe rekindled sparkof natural virtue ? And revives the sunkenfervour of vital spirits , dulled in the sick breast ? Since Phoebusfirst turned his sad wheels , has human effortever been other than a game ? And is truthless a vanity than the lie ? Nature gavehappy illusions , felicitous shadows , to console us : and when foolish customcould no longer shake off certain errorthe nation changed its study of the glorious to dark , bare , inaction . Perhaps a time will come when indifferentherds will browse the ruins of Italy , and the Seven Hillswill feel the plough : and perhapsin only a few years , sly foxeswill inhabit Latin cities , and the dark woods ’ murmuring surround the high walls : if fate cannot rid perverted mindsof this sad forgetfulnessfor the things of their country , and if heaven remembering past greatness , is not kind , in avertingthe final ruin of an abject race . O worthy son , grieve that you surviveof our unhappy country . When she bore the palm , which she has lostthrough our fatal error , you would have brought her fame . That age is gone : today no one looks for honour from her womb : but lift your spirit to heaven for yourself alone : what value does our life have ? only to be despised : blessed only when no danger threatens , and we forget ourselves , when we do not measurethe hurt of slow destructive hours , or listen to their flow : blessed only when we draw backfrom Lethe ’ s channel , to seek more grace . 40 . Marcus Junius Brutus ( VI ) When the pride of Rome lay wholly ruined in the Thracian dust , so that fate prepared the tramp of barbarous cavalry , for green Italy and the Tiber ’ s banks , and called a host of Goths , from naked woodsthe freezing Bear oppressed , to pierce Rome ’ s noble walls : Brutus , panting , wet with fraternal blood , in the dark night in a lonely place , ready now to die , cursedhell and the inexorable gods , stirring the drowsy air in vainwith his angry call . ‘ Dumb courage , the empty mists , the unquiet fields of shadows , are your haunts , and repentancefollows you . The unhappy crowdare a mockery and derision to you , gods of marble ( if there are gods , by Phlegethon or among the clouds ) , a race you look to for temples , and insultmortally with your fraudulent rule . Does earthly piety serve onlyto stir divine hatred ? Do you sit there , Jupiter , aiding the impious ? And whenthe storm flies through the air , and youhurl your swift lightning , is it against the pious you brandish the sacred fire ? Unconquerable fate , and ironnecessity , crush the weakslave of death : and the wretch whose powerfails , opposing them , takes solacein the inevitability of ruin . Are illsless cruel that have no redress ? Does onedevoid of hope feel no pain ? O ignoble fate , the noble man , unusedto yielding , wageseternal mortal war on you : and whenthe tyranny of your right hand overcomes himwith its weight , he will shrug it off indomitably , ceremoniously , piercing his sidewith the bitter steel , and smiling mockingly at the dark shadows . Those who enter Tartarus by violencedisplease the gods . Such courageis absent from mild eternal hearts . Perhaps the gods created our troubles , our bitter fortune , and unhappy affections , as an amusing spectacle for their idleness ? Nature , once queen and goddessordained not misery and guilt for usbut a free and pure life in the forest . Now impious customshave beaten her sacred kingdom to the earth , and encumbered our lives with alien laws , does kindly Nature rise up , when the strong rejecttheir unhappy times , and accuse the arrow that is not hers ? The wild creatures , happy , ignorant of guilt , and their own misfortune , are led by old age serenely to their unrecognised end . But if painled them to strike their browsagainst harsh trees , or hurl their bodiesheadlong to the wind , from stony mountains , O shadowy intelligence , no arcane law would opposetheir wretched wish . only you , of allthe many species heaven creates , Sons of Prometheus , regret life : only to you , O wretched men , if slow fate delays , does Jupiter deny the shores of death . And you rise , bright moon , from a sea that flows with our blood , and explore this unquiet night , and this land fatal to Italy ’ s bravest . The victor tramples on kindred hearts , the hills tremble , ancient Rome sinks from highest glory to disaster : can you be so calm ? You sawLavinia ’ s people born , and the yearsof joy , and unfading laurels : and you will shed your immutable rayson the silent peaks , when , to servile Italy ’ s shame , this solitary place echoes again , to barbarous footsteps . See how the birds , the wild creatures , hearts filled with their habitual lives , among the naked rocks , the green branches , ignore the great disaster , the alteredfate of the world : and when the roofsof the industrious farmers first redden , the birds will rouse the valleyswith their morning songs , and the wild beasts will chasethe weaker host of lesser creatures . Oh fate ! Oh vain humanity ! We arean abject part of things : and our illshave not troubled the bloodstained turf , the caves filled with groans , human cares have not obscured the stars . I do not call on the deaf kings of Cocytus or Olympus , or shameful earth , or moribund night : nor you , future age of knowledge , furthest bound of dark death . Can tearsassuage a scornful end , or words or giftsfrom the base crowd adorn it ? Timealters for the worse : it would be wrongto entrust the honour of noble minds , the last revenge for misery , to decayed generations . Let the dark birdhover over me with its cruel wings : wild beasts crush my nameless remains , storms disperse them , winds scatter my fame , and all memory of me . Note : Marcus Junius Brutus , was one of the conspirators who assassinated Julius Caesar . He committed suicide after the defeat at Philippi in 42 BC . Leopardi treats his death as marking the death of the Roman Republic and its values . Lavinia was the wife of Aeneas , the mythical Trojan father of the Roman people . 41 . Palinode To Marchese Gino Capponi ( XXXII ) ‘ Constant sighing doesn ’ t help ’ Petrarch My honest Gino , I was wrong : wrong for yearsand wildly wrong . I thought life wretched and empty , and the age that now unfoldsthe most stupid of all . The language I usedseemed , and was , intolerant of this blessedmortal race , if men ought to call themselvesmortal , or dare do so . Noble people laughedat me in wonder and scorn from that fragrant Eden they inhabit , and I ought to call myselflonely , unfortunate , incapable of pleasure , and ignorant of it , to believe my own fateuniversal , and the human species a partnerin my ills . At last there shone , vivid , to my eyes , through the cigar smoke of honour , murmurs of crackling pastries , military cries , commanders of ices and drinks , among the clash of cups , and brandished spoons , the flash of the daily papers . I realised then , I sawpublic happiness , and the sweetnessof mortal destiny . I saw the excellenceand the value of earthly things , a human path all flowers , and sawhow nothing here can last or displease . Nor did I fail to see the studies , the mightyworks , the sense , virtues , and noble wisdomof my century . And indeed I saw kingdoms , duchies and empires , from Morocco to Cathay , from the Pole to the Nile , and Boston to Goa , rushing in fierce competition on the trackof soul ’ s Happiness : seizing her by herstreaming hair , or at least by the tail of her boa . Seeing all this and reflectingdeeply on the huge spread - out pages , I was ashamed of my grave , long - standingerror , and indeed ashamed of myself . Oh , Gino , the thread of the Fates is spinninga golden age today . Every newspaperborn of so many languages and columns , promises it to the world from every shore , simultaneously . Universal love , railways , the multiplicity of commerce , steam , the printing press , and cholera unite , the widely scattered peoples and climates : it ’ s no real wonder if oaks and pinesexude milk and honey , or danceto the sound of a waltz . So has the power of alembics and retorts increased , of machines that challenge the heavens , and so it will increase in the agesthat follow : the seed of Shem , Ham , and Japheth flies , and will fly , to greater and greater things forever . True , the earth won ’ t live on acorns , unless hunger forces it to : nor endthe use of iron . But often it willscorn silver and gold , contentwith paper money . Nor willthe generous race hold back its handfrom blood , the blood of its own : Europeindeed , and the far side of the Atlanticthe fresh nurse of true community , will be full of strife , whenever this crowdof brothers take the field against each other , for pepper , or cinnamon , or some other fatal spice , or for sugar canes , or anything else they can turn to gold . Courage and virtue , faith and modesty , love of justice , will always , in whatever political system , be whollyand utterly alien , wholly unhappy , oppressed , defeated : since nature has always placed them down below , in every age . Bold impudence , deceit , and mediocrity will always rule , fated to rise to the surface . Authority and power , concentrated or devolved , however you wish , will be abused by those who have it , in whatever name . Nature and fate engraved this primal law in adamant : and Volta and Davy can ’ t cancel itwith electricity , nor England with allher machines , nor this new centurywith all its river of political tracts . The good will always grieve , the badrejoice in mockery : the world will alwaystake up arms against noble spirits , forever . Slander , envy and hate will pursuetrue honour : the weak will feed the strong , the indigent beggar must cultivate and servethe rich , whatever the form of communal order , however nearor far the equator or pole , eternally , unless the day arrives when our raceno longer knows its home or daylight . These slight remains and tracesof past ages must still impressthemselves on this age of gold : since the human race has a thousandconflicting , discordant parts and principles , in its nature : and human intellect and powerhas never served to make peace our of hatred , from the day our gloriousrace was born , and never will , however wise or potent our century ’ s newspapers or treaties . Yet human happinesswill be found in weightier things , wholesome , not seen before . Our clothes of wool or silk will become softerday by day . Farmers and craftsmenhastening to throw off rough garments , will hide their coarse skin in cotton , and clothe their backs in beaver - furs . Carpets , blankets , chairs , settees , stools and dining tables , beds and otherkinds of furnishings will be more usable , or at least easier on the eye , adorningapartments with this month ’ s beauty : the wondrous kitchen will be ablaze with new forms of pots and pans . Journeys or rather flights will beswifter than anyone dare imagine , Paris to Calais , and London : Londonto Liverpool : and under the Thames ’ broad flood the tunnel will be open , bold , immortal work that should havebeen opened years ago . The less frequented streets will be lit better than now , yet just as safe , in sovereigncities , and perhaps , in lesser towns , the major roads , sometimes . Such the delights and blessed destinythat heaven ordains for future peoples . How fortunate those the midwife holds mewling in her arms , as I write , whom the vision awaitsof the days , sighed - for , when lengthystudy will reveal , and every infantwill absorb with its milk , what weightof salt , of meat , how many tons of flour , its native town consumes : how manybirths and deaths , the old priest notesevery year : when hill and plain , I think , and even the vast tracts of ocean , will be covered by magazines , the work of steam - driven pressesprinting thousands of copies a second , as if by a flight of cranes that suddenlysteals daylight from the broad landscape : magazines , journals , the life and spiritof the universe , sole fount of wisdomfor this age and all those to come ! As a child , with great care , raises a structure , out of twigsand bits of paper , shapedlike a church , tower , or palace , and , when it ’ s done , levels it , because the paper and twigsare needed for another effort , so , no sooner does nature findthat any work of hers , howeverartistically noble to contemplate , is perfect , she starts to undo it , allotting the parts to something else . And so to preserve themselves from this foolish game , whose meaningis eternally hidden , human beingsemploy their talents a thousand wayswith skilful hands : since for all their effortscruel Nature , like a persistent child , indulges her caprice , amuses herself , without cease , creating and destroying . So an infinite , varied family of incurable ills and troubles oppresses the frail mortal , irremediablyfated to die : so a hostile , destructive forcestrikes him from within and fromall sides , intense and relentless , from his day of birth : indefatigablytires him , wearies him , till he liescrushed and spent beside his cruel mother . These final miseries of our mortal state , O gentle spirit , old age and death , whose origin is when the infant ’ s mouthsucks at the tender breast that gives it life , are things the happy nineteenth centurycan no more end than the ninth or tenth could , I think , and no more than future ages will have the power to do . So , if we ’ re entitled sometimes to callthe truth by its proper name , all who areborn will never be anything but wretched , not only in civic realms and ways , but in every other aspect of life , incurably , and by a universal law , that embraces earth and heaven . But the greatest minds of my centuryhave discovered a new , almost divineprogramme : lacking the powerto make a single person happy , they ’ ve ignored the one , to search forthe happiness of many : finding it easilyamong the sad and wretched , they makeone happy smiling people : and the mobwill marvel at this miracle , not yet announcedin newspapers , pamphlets or magazines . Oh minds , oh judgement , oh superhuman acumenof the age that unfolds ! Oh , Gino , what solid philosophy , what wisdom , in the most sublime and most abstrusesubjects , my century and yours will teachthe future ages ! With what constancyit admires today what it mocked the daybefore , and will destroy tomorrow , gathering the fragments together , to set them among incense the day after ! How we should treasure , what faith it inspires , the harmony of feeling of this century , rather this year , that unfolds ! When we compare our feelings with this year ’ s feelings , which are bound to be different to next year ’ s feelings , with what care we should avoidthe slightest sign of divergence ! And how farour wisdom has travelled in philosophywhen we contrast modern times with ancient ! Dear Gino , a friend of yours , a truemaster of poetry , learned in all the arts , and sciences and human disciplines , and critic of those minds that have beenand are and will be , said to me : ‘ Forgetyour own feelings . This virile ageno longer cares for them , it ’ s dedicatedto the harsh study of economics , its gazeis fixed on public things . What ’ s the pointof exploring your own soul ? Don ’ t searchinside yourself for poetic subjects . Singthe needs of this century , mature hope , memorable sentences ! ’ That raised a solemnsmile , when the word ‘ hope ’ was mentioned , a ridiculous word to my profane ear , like the babbling of an infant ’ s tonguenot long after it ’ s been weaned . NowI ’ ve reversed my course , taken a trackopposite to that before , seeing clearly at last from unmistakable signs that Ishouldn ’ t contradict , oppose my own century , if I want praise and fame , but conform to it , with faithful flattery : ‘ so by a short and easy path we travel to the stars ’. Though desirous of the stars , I doubtI ’ ll ever have the matter to makea song about our century ’ s needs , since the ever - increasing marketsand production provide so generouslyfor them : but I ’ ll certainly sing of hope , of which the gods now grant usa visible sign : now young men ’ s lipsand cheeks display , as a token of fresh felicity , liberal lengths of hair . O hail , O signs of salvation , O firstlights of the glorious age that rises . See how heaven and earth laughbefore you , and the girls ’ glancessparkle , and , through feasts and gatherings , your fame , you bearded heroes , already flies . Flourish , for our country ’ s sake , flourishO modern race of true men . Italy willflourish : all of Europe , from the mouthof Tagus to Hellespont , will flourish in your woolly shade , and earth rest , secure . And you , begin by greeting your bristlyfathers with laughter , O infant race , destined for golden days : and do not fearthe innocuous gloom on those dear faces . Laugh , O tender race : the fruit of so muchtalk has been preserved for you : to see joy rule , to see cities and towns , and ageand youth , all happy in equal contentment , with flowing beards , beards two foot long . Note : Gino Capponi ( 1792 - 1876 ) a Catholic , liberal , and Florentine man of letters . Index of First Lines Silvia , do you remember 6 It was always dear to me , this solitary hill , 8 The night is sweet and clear , without a breeze , 9 O lovely moon , now I ’ m reminded . 11 The girl comes from the fields , 12 Now you ’ ll rest forever 14 Why are you there , Moon , in the sky ? Tell me . 15 My thoughts turn to the day when I felt love . 19 Solitary bird , you sing . 23 Poor frail leaf 25 When as a boy I set myself 26 As on a lonely night 27 Fragrant broom , 29 The storm has gone : 38 Sweetest , powerful 40 Fate gave birth , at the same moment , 45 Lovely girl , where are you going ? . 49 You were such , who now are buried . 53 Because the sun renews . 55 And you , sung by your grieving sons , 58 Calm night , modest rays of the descending . 62 Dear Pepoli , how do you endure . 64 Every earthly event 69 Things human last so short a time : 70 It was dawn , the sun insinuated . 71 Now the hen exults with beating wings . 74 Dearest beauty , who inspire . 77 Lovely stars of the Plough , I never dreamed . 79 I thought the sweet troubles . 84 Consalvo lay close to the end of life . 89 Aspasia , your image sometimes enters . 93 Listen , Melissus : I ’ ll tell you a dream . . 96 I who wander before this threshold . 98 The rays of light were dying in the west : 99 O my country , I see the walls , arches . 102 Because our people . 106 Ardent Italian , do you never tire . 112 Leaving , at last , the silences . 117 Blessed youth , know the face of glory . 120 When the pride of Rome lay . 122 My honest Gino , I was wrong : wrong for years . 127