CARDUCCI, Giosuè
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Principio immenso, Materia e spirito, Ragione e senso
Il vin scintilla Sì come l’anima Ne la pupilla;
La terra e il sole E si ricambiano D’amor parole,
D’imene arcano Da’ monti e palpita Fecondo il piano;
Il verso ardito, Te invoco, o Satana, Re del convito.
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mighty principle, matter and spirit reason and sense
sparkles in cups like the soul in the eye
sun exchange their smiles and words of love
from their secret embrace run down from the mountains, and the plain throbs with new life
verses are unleashed, you I invoke, O Satan monarch of the feast.
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accogli, o Roma, e avvolgi l’anima mia di luce.
chi le farfalle cerca sotto l’arco di Tito?
****
raggia divino il sole pe’ larghi azzurri tuoi.
al vecchio Capitolio santo fra le ruine;
a l’amor che diffuso splende per l’aure chete.
e tu Soratte grigio, testimone in eterno!
Tuscolo verde, canta; canta, irrigua Tivoli;
nave immensa lanciata vèr’ l’impero del mondo.
varca a’ misterïosi liti l’anima mia.
tranquillamente lunghi su la Flaminia via,
la fronte, e ignoto io passi ne la serena pace;
de i padri conversanti lungh’esso il fiume sacro.
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To soar sublime; do thou, O Rome, receive This soul of mine and flood it with thy light.
To thee I come; who is there that would seek For butterflies beneath the Arch of Titus? **** Do thou but shed thine azure round me, Rome, Illumine me with sunlight; all-divine Are the sun's rays in thy vast azure spaces.
The beauteous Quirinal, and ancient there The Capitol, amongst all ruins holy.
Thine arms, O Rome, to meet the love diffused, A radiant splendor, through the quiet air.
That nuptial-couch; and thou, O hoar Soratte, Thou art the witness in eternity.
The epithalamium; green Tusculum Sing thou; and sing, O fertile Tivoli!
With wonder on the city's pictured form— A mighty ship, launched toward the world's dominion.
The infinite, bear with thee on thy passage My soul unto the shores of mystery!
With the white jewels of the coming night, Quietly linger on the Flaminian Way;
With silent wing my forehead, while I pass Unknown through this serenity of peace,
Once more the lofty spirits of the Fathers Conversing there beside the sacred river.
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Kingfisher
Not under a steel nib that scratches in nasty furrows
its dull thoughts onto dry white paper;
but under the ripe sun, as breezes gust
through wide-open clearings beside a swift stream,
the heart’s sighs, dwindling into infinity, are born,
the sweet, wistful flower of melody is born.
Here redolent May shines in rose-scented air,
brilliant the hollow eyes, hearts asleep in their chests;
the heart sleeps, but ears are easily roused
by the chromatic cries of La Gioconda.
O Muses’ altar of green, white-capped
above the sea. Alcman leads the chaste choir:
“I want to fly with you, maidens, fly into a dance,
as the kingfisher flies drawn by halcyons:
he flies with halcyons over spindrift waves in a gale,
kingfisher, purple herald of spring.
Snowfall / Nevicata
A light snow falls through an ashy sky.
From the city no sounds rise up, no human cries,
not the grocer’s call or the ruckus of his cart,
no light-hearted song of being young and in love.
From the tower in the piazza, the quinsied hours
moan, sighing as if from a world far off.
Flocks of birds beat against the misted glass:
ghosts of friends returned, peering in, calling to me.
Soon, O my dears, soon—peace, indomitable heart—
I will sift down to silence, in shadow rest.
At the station
in an autumn morning
O the lamps—how they chase
each other lazily there behind the trees,
yawning their light through dripping
branches onto the mud.
Faint, fine, shrill, a nearby
steam engine hisses. A lead sky
and the autumn morning
enwrap us like a great chimera.
Where and to what are they going, these people,
cloaked and silent, hurrying to dark cars—
to what unforeseeable sorrows
or pangs of remote hope?
Even you, rapt Lydia, give
to the conductor your torn ticket,
and to pressing time your beautiful years,
your memories and moments of joy.
Along the black train come
the trainmen hooded in black
like shadows, with dim lanterns
and iron sledges, and the iron
brakes when plied make a long
enervated clang: from the soul’s depths,
an echo of languor makes its sad
reply, like a shudder.
And the doors slammed shut
seem like outrages: a quick jibe
sounds the final farewell:
thundering on heavy panes, the rain.
Already the monster, owning its metallic
soul, fumes, slouches, pants, opens
wide its fiery eyes; defies the heavens,
whistling through the gloom.
The unholy monster goes; with a horrible tug,
beating its wings, it carries away my love.
Ah, the alabaster face and fine veil,
hailing me, disappear in darkness.
O sweet face of pale rose,
o starlit placid eyes, o snow-white
forehead ringed with luxuriant curls
gently bending in a nod of love.
The warm air was throbbing with life;
the summer throbbed when she looked on me,
and the youthful June sun
liked to shower her cheek
with kisses of light, reflected through
auburn hair: like a halo
more brilliant than the sun, my dreams
encircle her soft shape . . .
Beneath the rain, I return through
the haze; and I would lose myself in it.
I stagger like a drunk. I touch myself
to see if I also have become a ghost.
O how the leaves are falling—cold,
incessant, mute, heavy—on my soul.
I know that everywhere in the world,
solitary and eternal, it is November.
Better he who’s lost the sense of life,
better this shadow, this haze:
I want O how I want to lie myself down
in doldrums that will last forever.