Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

Joseph Tusiani / Giosuè Carducci
Saint Martin’s Day
The fog climbs, mixed with rain,
to the steep hills and, white,
the sea now seems to fight
the north-west winds that roll.
But through the hamlet’s lanes
from barrels in ferment,
the new wine’s acrid scent
gives joy to every soul.
Over the burning log,
hissing, the spit turns o’er
while, whistling at the door,
the hunter once again
sees in the crimson clouds
more flocks of black birds pass,
like exile thoughts, alas,
within the setting sun.
Vignette
The gladsome season, and her gentle grace,
and the green hill where first I saw her stand,
on top of all my thoughts are smiling still.
April was new, and dazzled air and rill;
under the breathing of a western breeze
the leaves were bending with a blissful trill.
White-clad, she seemed pure gold within the sun,
and through the youthful trees her song was spun.
Noon on the Alps
In the great circle of the Alps, on pale
discolored granite and on glaciers blazing,
noon reigns intense, and limpid, and unceasing,
sitting on silence as upon a throne.
Pine-trees and firs unmoved by breath of wind
stand in the sun that penetrates them all:
but as a lute, you hear one music call
a thin rill flowing between stone and stone.
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