(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.
(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.
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