The Infinite

(trans. Alan Marshfield)


Dear always to me this deserted hill

And this hedgerow, which from so large a part

Of the extreme horizon bars the view.

Seated and gazing, interminable spaces

Beyond that place, and silences which are

Deeper than human, and quiet most profound

In thought I fashion me, where for a while

The heart is not alarmed. And as the wind

I hear commingle with these leaves, I that

Infinite silence to this voice go on

Comparing: thus reclaim I the eternal,

And seasons which are dead, and that one which

Is here and living, and the sound she makes.

In this immensity my thoughts are drowned:

And sweet to me is shipwreck in this sea.



The Evening Of Fiesta Day

(trans. Alan Marshfield)


The night is mild and clear without a breeze.

Silently over rooftops and through orchards

The moonlight pauses and far off reveals

Serenely every mountain. Oh my love,

Now every way is hushed, and here and there

A night lamp glimmers from the balconies.

You sleep, for slumber in your quiet rooms

Peacefully welcomes you; and not a care

Consumes; and little do you know or guess

How great a wound you opened in my heart.

You sleep: this sky above which so benign

Appears to view, I face around to greet,

And ancient Nature the omnipotent

Which fashioned me for pain. From you I sever

Hope, she said. Yes, even hope. May nothing

Illuminate your eyes but helpless tears.

This was fiesta day; now from its play

You take repose; and maybe you remember

In dreams how many pleased you, and how many

Today you pleased: but I, not that I hoped to,

Come not into your mind. Meanwhile I ask

How long I have to live, and here to earth

I fling myself, cry, quake. Oh horrible

In such green season! Yet upon the road

I hear not far away the lonely song

An artisan makes coming late at night

After his pleasures to his poor abode;

And frenziedly the heart in me contracts

To think how all things worldly pass away

And leave but little mark. See, it has gone,

Fiesta day, and after the flesta

A vulgar day succeeds, and time bears off

All human circumstance. Where now the sound

Of antique nations? Now where žs the fame

Of ancestors renowned, the mighty empire

Of Rome that was, its armour and alarms

Which ventured over land and over ocean?

Now all is calm and still, and all that world

Has ceased, and no word more is said of it.

In my young days, an age when fervently

We waited for fiesta day, when - once

It passed - I, sick of heart, would lie awake,

Pressed to my pillow: in the deep of night

A song that one could hear along the paths

Fading away, little by little dying,

In just such vein would once contract my heart.



To Himself

(tr. J.G.Nichols)


Now you must rest for ever,

My weary heart. The last deceit has died,

I had thought everlasting. Died. I feel

Not hope alone, desire

For dear deceits in us has come to fail.

Now rest for ever. You

Have throbbed sufficiently. Nothing is worth

One beat of yours; nor is it worthy sighs,

This earth. Bitterness, boredom

Are all life is; and all the world is mud.

Lie quietly. Despair

This final time. Fate granted to our kind

Nothing but dying. Now despise yourself,

Nature (the brutal force

That furtively ordains the general harm),

And this infinity of nothingness.




From: BrinDin Press Online