Classic Poem

It gave Favart Mose . Tamburini
The basso cantante, tenor Rubini,
Were both in the play, and the dirty,
When he had been enlarged and made colossal
Great as St. Charle or as Scala,
Could not contain his audience that night.
Me happier than all I had to know everything,
And the voice of the singers and the work of the master.
Loving little opera is coincidence that I go,
And I had not seen the Moses French;
For our language, to us, raucous and without prosody,
False all music, and the bold notes
Against a harsh word is striking in its flight,
Breaks his golden wings and falls to the ground.
I was there, both arms outstretched on CHEST,
To hold my heart full of divine ecstasy;
My arteries singing with a loud shudder
My ears strained and drinking each sound;
Attentive as noise hail fanfare
A skittish horse that throbs and is terrified.
All voices shouting, all hands struck,
A force cheering, white gloves were breaking;
And the curtain fell. It was the first act.
Then I looked, sharper and more accurate,
Through the eyeglass in my eyes less distracted,
Each head in turn passed with his features.
Certainly, in the range and the golden gate
Rolling their white fingers amber casserole,
The reflection of the jewels, fire diamonds,
With their gold necklaces and all their ornaments,
I saw more beautiful and deserving praise;
At least I thought, when the bottom of a box
I saw a woman. It seemed to me first,
The lodge him forming a part of its board,
It was a painting by Titian or Giorgione,
Less smoke and less ancient yellow varnish,
As it stood in the stillness,
Looking at it simply,
The blossomed into a half smile mouth,
And as an open book his forehead leaving read.
Her hair was low, and moire hair
Down to his temple into two separate streams.
Feathers, ribbons, or gauze or lace;
Adornment and jewelry, natural grace;
No haughty glance winner or air,
Just the rest of soul and goodness of heart.
After some time, the beautiful creature,
Wearying to be so, took another position,
The neck slightly bent, chin on hand,
In order to show its beautiful Roman profile
His shoulder and back with warm and vivid colors,
Where the shade with light floated by the broad masses.
All lost its luster, while falling off
This pristine and serene beauty:
My whole soul in this magical aspect
Not remember listening to music,
Both this and let go morbidezze
Was charming and gentle thing to contemplate,
As the eye rested with melancholy
This pale jasmine transplanted from Italy.
Less enamored of Fine qu'epris sounds fine contours,
Even parlar spiegar , I always looked;
I marveled to myself graceful line
Cervical folding as the neck of a swan,
The oval of the head and the shape of the front,
Pure and correct hand with beautiful round arm;
And I understood why, in exile in France,
Ingres was so long his love of Florence.
To this day I searched in vain for the beautiful;
These forms without power and fade this skin
In which the blood does not run as fever
Sun and never bit his lip;
This drawing loose and soft, this pale color,
I had blasphemed the holy art.
I said: Art is false, the kings of the painting
In an ideal dress are of nature.
These harmonious colors, the fine lineaments,
Never existed as brains of lovers;
I said, having seen the French ugliness:
Raphael lied as Paul Veronese!
You have not lied, no masters, although this
Greek marble by the Italian golden amber,
The eye of flame, passion pale,
Blond as the sun under her veil of tan,
In the whiteness marked black eyebrows,
Severe straight nose, mouth with arched corners
The wings of hair falling on the forehead,
And all the noble traits of your holy prints.
No, you have not had a dream of beauty,
That's life itself and reality.
Your Lady is there, it poses in her dressing room,
Near it is in vain and it buzzes cause;
It remains motionless in the same day,
Keeping as a harmonious treasure contour.
Sovereign artists, as faithful copyists
You have played your beautiful models!
Why discouraged by your divine paintings,
I, lazy child, then threw my brushes
And took for you to fix the pencil of the poet,
Sweet dreams, my restless soul obsessors,
Sweet ghosts rocked in the arms of desire,
Forms the floor in vain tries to grasp?
Why, tired too early in an hour of doubt,
Beloved painting, I left your road?
That can make for all to beauty,
What can mere words without drawing arrested
And hollow epithet and rhyme colorless?
Ah! how sorry I am and as I deplore
Not to be a painter, seeing you so
A Mose in your lodge, O Julia Grisi!