Classic Poem

The cypresses, which still to Bolgheri run stately
And tall from San Guido in a double file,
Like a band of youthful giants, came, sedately
Bowing, to meet me, and gazed at me awhile.

Soon they recognised me, and their tall heads bending,
" So you have returned," softly murmured they:
" Why not stay here, your weary journey ending?
For the eve is cool, and well you know the way.

" Oh, sit you here, our fragrant boughs above you,
Where the west wind from the sea your cheek can touch!
Spite of the stones you used to throw at us we love you
Just the same as ever; oh, they never hurt us much.

" Why rush on so quickly when you hear us crying?
The nightingale still in our branches builds his nest;
Still may you see the sparrows round us flying
In the gathering twilight. Oh, stay with us and rest!"

" Darling little cypresses, cypresses beloved,
In happy bygone days the truest friends I had,"
Gazing, I answered, " I hear you not unmoved:
How glad would I be to stay with you — how glad!

" But, cypresses, old comrades, that chapter is completed:
Boyhood's days are over: you must let me go!
Have you never heard? — well, think me not conceited,
But — I am to-day a celebrity, you know.

" Greek I can read, in Latin I am fluent,
My mind is stored with knowledge, and I write and write:
O cypresses, from school I no longer play the truant,
No longer throw stones, for I should not deem it right —

" Not at trees at least." Thro' all the tree-tops rocking,
As doubting of my answer, a murmur seemed to run,
And their dark green depths flushed rosy with a mocking
Radiance cast upon them by the setting sun.

Ah, then I knew I was gazed on with compassion
By the sun and cypresses, and I soon began
To hear words mingle with the murmur in this fashion:
" Yes, we knew it well: you 're a poor deluded man.

" Yes, we knew it well; for the wind, who is so clever
At catching mortals' sighs, has told us all the truth,
How within your breast conflicting passions ever
Burn, which you cannot and know not how to soothe.

" Here to the oaks and to us you may at leisure
Recount your human sadness, all the woes of men.
Peaceful lies the ocean, one sheet of living azure,
Smiling the sun dips down to it again.

" See how the birds thro' the dusk their flight are winging!
The sparrows twitter cheerfully, now the day is done;
At nightfall you shall hear the nightingales singing:
Rest, and bid the evil phantoms all begone!

" Those evil phantoms, raised by gloomy fancies
From the heart's black depths, which confuse your way,
Like a will-o'-the-wisp that in a graveyard dances
Before the traveller's eyes, leading him astray.

" Rest, and to-morrow, when the sun is high in heaven,
When in the oak-tree shade the horses meet,
And all around you the silent plain is given
Up to noonday slumber in the shimmering heat,

" We will bid the murmuring breezes softly kiss you,
Which make eternal music 'twixt the earth and sky:
Forth from the elm-trees there the nymphs shall issue
And with their white veils fan you dreamily:

" And Pan, the eternal, who wanders solitary,
On the heights at noonday or through the lonely plain
The discord, O mortal, of your cares shall bury
In harmony divine, and give you peace again."

And I: " Far away across the mountains yonder
My Titti, my daughter, is waiting: let me go!
Sparrow-like she may be, but you must not wonder
If her little frocks do not, like feathers, grow.

" Nor will cypress berries her tiny body fatten:
Whilst I 'gainst the methods of Manzonians rebel,
Who each on the produce of four salaries batten:
Farewell, my cypresses! Sweet Tuscan plain, farewell!

" To the graveyard then must we bear your sad confession,
Where your Granny lieth?" And they flitted past,
Seeming like a black funereal procession,
Muttering as they hastened ever faster and more fast.

Then on the hill-top from the cemetery,
Coming down the green path, again I seemed to see a
Figure 'neath the cypresses, very tall and very
Stately, dressed in black, my grandmother Lucia.

The lady Lucia, with silver tresses plaited
Neatly o'er her forehead, how softly she could croon
The Tuscan dialect, not the emasculated
Manzonian jargon of the Florentine buffoon.

The pure Versilian accent from her lips descended
With a mournful music, that still my memory haunts,
All its strength and sweetness exquisitely blended
Like the sirventesi sung in old Provence.

Oh, Granny, Granny, I thought it all so pretty
When I was a baby! Oh, tell it me again;
Tell this man grown worldly-wise the ancient ditty
Of her who soughTher lost love thro' the world in vain.

" I have worn to nothing in my weary going
Seven pairs of iron shoes that naught could break:
I have worn out seven staves of iron, bowing
My tired body o'er them, while search for thee I make.

" Seven flasks of tears have I filled to overflowing
In seven years of bitter weeping for thy sake;
Yet thou sleepest on, and the cock is crowing:
Deat to my despairing cries, thou wilt not wake."

Granny, how pretty and how true the tale appears
Even now to me! Why, it is exactly so!
And that which I have sought thro' so many, many years
From sunrise to sunset perhaps is here, below


These cypresses, where now I can never hope to wander,
Never dream again of resting in the shade:
It is perhaps, Granny, in the cemetery yonder,
'Mid those other cypresses up there, where you are laid.

Panting the train swept onward, never staying,
While in my heart I wept thus bitterly:
And a troop of young colts galloped towards us neighing
Joyously, the cause of all the din to see.

But an old grey donkey, who on a purple thistle
Was grazing close beside me, seemed no interest to feel;
Never deigned to look when he heard the engine whistle,
But gravely and slowly proceeded with his meal.