To Sylvia.

    O Sylvia, dost thou remember still
    That period of thy mortal life,
    When beauty so bewildering
    Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes,
    As thou, so merry, yet so wise,
    Youth's threshold then wast entering?

    How did the quiet rooms,
    And all the paths around,
    With thy perpetual song resound,
    As thou didst sit, on woman's work intent,
    Abundantly content
    With the vague future, floating on thy mind!
    Thy custom thus to spend the day
    In that sweet time of youth and May!

    How could I, then, at times,
    In those fair days of youth,
    The only happy days I ever knew,
    My hard tasks dropping, or my careless rhymes,
    My station take, on father's balcony,
    And listen to thy voice's melody,
    And watch thy hands, as they would deftly fly
    O'er thy embroidery!
    I gazed upon the heaven serene,
    The sun-lit paths, the orchards green,
    The distant mountain here,
    And there, the far-off sea.
    Ah, mortal tongue cannot express
    What then I felt of happiness!

    What gentle thoughts, what hopes divine,
    What loving hearts, O Sylvia mine!
    In what bright colors then portrayed
    Were human life and fate!
    Oh, when I think of such fond hopes betrayed,
    A feeling seizes me
    Of bitterness and misery,
    And tenfold is my grief renewed!
    O Nature, why this treachery?
    Why thus, with broken promises,
    Thy children's hearts delude?

    Thou, ere the grass was touched with winter's frost,
    By fell disease attacked and overcome,
    O tender plant, didst die!
    The flower of thy days thou ne'er didst see;
    Nor did thy soft heart move
    Now of thy raven locks the tender praise,
    Now of thy eyes, so loving and so shy;
    Nor with thee, on the holidays,
    Did thy companions talk of love.

    So perished, too, erelong,
    My own sweet hope;
    So too, unto my years
    Did Fate their youth deny.
    Alas, alas the day,
    Lamented hope, companion dear,
    How hast thou passed away!
    Is this that world? These the delights,
    The love, the labors, the events,
    Of which we once so fondly spoke?
    And must all mortals wear this weary yoke?
    Ah, when the truth appeared,
    It better seemed to die!
    Cold death, the barren tomb, didst thou prefer
    To harsh reality.

Giacomo Leopardi

Giacomo Leopardi was an Italian philosopher, poet, essayist, and philologist. Born in Recanati into a noble family, he is often considered the greatest Italian poet of the 19th century. Leopardi's works are noted for their pessimism and philosophical depth, exploring existential themes such as suffering, the nature of happiness, and the human condition. His notable works include the collection "Canti" and the philosophical dialogue "Operette morali." He died young at the age of 38 in Naples.

Giacomo Leopardi

To Angelo Mai, On His Discovery Of The Lost Books Of Cicero, "De Republica."

Giacomo Leopardi, Simple Poetry

The Evening Of The Holiday.

Giacomo Leopardi, Simple Poetry

Scherzo.

Giacomo Leopardi, Simple Poetry

The Lonely Life.

Giacomo Leopardi, Simple Poetry

English

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The Lonely Life.

    The morning rain, when, from her coop released,
    The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from
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Giacomo Leopardi

The Dream.

    It was the morning; through the shutters closed,
    Along the balcony, the earliest rays
    Of sunlight my dark room were entering;
    When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes
    Its softest and most grateful shadows casts,
    There stood beside me, looking in my face,
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Giacomo Leopardi

The Last Song Of Sappho.

    Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray
    Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er
    The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove,
    The messenger of day; how dear ye were,
    And how delightful to these eyes, while yet
    Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now,
    No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul.
    Then, only, can forgotten joy revive,
    When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields
    The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust;
    And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove,
    Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads,
    A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky.
    Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly
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Giacomo Leopardi

The Lonely Sparrow.

    Thou from the top of yonder antique tower,
    O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone,
    Thy song repeating till the day is done,
    And through this valley strays the harmony.
    How Spring rejoices in the fields around,
    And fills the air with light,
    So that the heart is melted at the sight!
    Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds!
    In sweet content, the other birds
    Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel,
    In pure enjoyment of their happy time:
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    Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round;
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    And with thy plaintive music, dost consume
    Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

    Alas, how much my ways

Giacomo Leopardi

To The Spring. Or Of The Fables Of The Ancients.

    Now that the sun the faded charms
    Of heaven again restores,
    And gentle zephyr the sick air revives,
    And the dark shadows of the clouds
    Are put to flight,
    And birds their naked breasts confide
    Unto the wind, and the soft light,
    With new desire of love, and with new hope,
    The conscious beasts, in the deep woods,
    Amid the melting frosts, inspires;
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    Weary, and overborne with grief,
    The happy age return, which misery,
    And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed?
    Have not the golden rays
    Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze
    Forever? Say, O gentle Spring,
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Giacomo Leopardi