CARDUCCI, Giosuè

To the Sources of the Clitumnus

Still from the mount, with darkly waving ashes

Murmuring into the wind, and which, afar off
On the light breezes, smells fresh of the woodland

Sages and sweet thymes,

In the damp evening come down, O Clitumnus,
To thee the flocks: to thee the child of Umbria
The sheep reluctant into the cold water
Plunges and dips, whilst

From the dry bosom of the barefoot mother,
Who sits and sings there at the little homestead.
An infant turns towards him, and its round face
Ripples with sweet smiles.

Pensive the father, with the skins of young goats

Twisted about him like the fauns of old time;
Ruleth the painted wagon and the strength of
Beautiful oxen.


In the Piazza of San Petronio

Dark in the winter's crystal air arise

Bologna's turrets, and above them laughs

The mountain-slope all whitened by the snows.

It is that mellowest hour when the sun

His dying salutation on the towers

And, Saint Petronius, on thy temple sheds,—

Towers whose battlements the broad-spread wings

Of many passing centuries have grazed,

And the grave temple's solitary peak.

The adamantine sky is gleaming cold

In its refulgence, and the air is drawn

O'er the piazza like a silver veil

That lightly brushes with caressing touch

The threatening piles, whose grim walls gather round,

Raised by our fathers' mail-encircled arms.

Still lingering on the mountain heights, the sun

Looks o'er the scene; and languidly his smile

Falls with suffusing tint of violet

On the grey building stones and on the dark

Vermilion brick, and seems to waken there

The living soul of vanished centuries;

And wakens in the rigid winter air

A melancholy yearning for the glow

Of spring-times past, of warm and festal eves,

When here in the piazza used to dance

The beauteous women, and in triumph home

Returned the Consuls with their captive kings.

Thus in her flight the Muse is laughing back

Upon the verse in which vain longing throbs

For all the antique beauty that is gone.

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.