Journal of Italian Translation

Giovanni Pascoli
The Dapple Gray Mare
The Villa lay beneath the quiet’s cover.
The poplars whispered by the Salto River.
The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed
on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread.
Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled
upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold;
her nostrils carried still that tang of shore,
and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar.
A woman leaned beside the horse’s head;
she was my mother. This is what she said:
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,
who bore the man who won’t return away—
you understood his touch, his words, his mind!
The man has left a little boy behind
(first born of eight) who never handled reins.
And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes,
heed his small hand. And heed his childlike speech,
though in your heart there lies a barren beach.
The gray mare turned her bony head to see
my mother as she spoke so mournfully:
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,
who bore the man who won’t return away—
I know, of course: I know you loved him, too!
He would have died alone there, but for you.
After the bit between your teeth went slack,