Count Giacomo Leopardi: Всі вірші поета

Всі вірші Оригінали Переклади

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 › »

On An Old Sepuchral Bas-Relief

WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING,

TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.

Where goest thou? Who calls

Thee from my dear ones far away?

Most lovely maiden, say!

Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave

Thy father's roof so soon?

Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return?

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

On The Portrait Of A Beautiful Woman,

CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.

Such _wast_ thou: now in earth below,

Dust and a skeleton thou art.

Above thy bones and clay,

Here vainly placed by loving hands,

Sole guardian of memory and woe,

The image of departed beauty stands.

Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

The Resurrection

I thought I had forever lost,

Alas, though still so young,

The tender joys and sorrows all,

That unto youth belong;

The sufferings sweet, the impulses

Our inmost hearts that warm;

Whatever gives this life of ours

Its value and its charm.

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

Scherzo

When, as a boy, I went

To study in the Muses' school,

One of them came to me, and took

Me by the hand, and all that day,

She through the work-shop led me graciously,

The mysteries of the craft to see.

She guided me

Through every part,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

Hymn To The Patriarchs

OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.

Illustrious fathers of the human race,

Of you, the song of your afflicted sons

Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far,

Unto the Great Disposer of the stars,

Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours.

Immedicable woes, a life of tears,

The silent tomb, eternal night, to find

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

Consalvo

Approaching now the end of his abode

On earth, Consalvo lay; complaining once,

Of his hard fate, but now quite reconciled,

When, in the midst of his fifth lustre, o'er

His head oblivion, so longed-for, hung.

As for some time, so, on his dying day,

He lay, abandoned by his dearest friends:

For in the world, few friends to _him_ will cling,

by Count 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,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

Imitation

Wandering from the parent bough,

Little, trembling leaf,

Whither goest thou?

"From the beech, where I was born,

By the north wind was I torn.

Him I follow in his flight,

Over mountain, over vale,

From the forest to the plain,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

Recollections

Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think

I should again be turning, as I used,

To see you over father's garden shine,

And from the windows talk with you again

Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt,

And where I saw the end of all my joys.

What charming images, what fables, once,

The sight of you created in my thought,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

The Lonely Life

The morning rain, when, from her coop released,

The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from

The balcony the husbandman looks forth,

And when the rising sun his trembling rays

Darts through the falling drops, against my roof

And windows gently beating, wakens me.

I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds,

The cheerful twitter of the early birds,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

The Younger Brutus

When in the Thracian dust uprooted lay,

In ruin vast, the strength of Italy,

And Fate had doomed Hesperia's valleys green,

And Tiber's shores,

The trampling of barbarian steeds to feel,

And from the leafless groves,

On which the Northern Bear looks down,

Had called the Gothic hordes,

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

The Ruling Thought

Most sweet, most powerful,

Controller of my inmost soul;

The terrible, yet precious gift

Of heaven, companion kind

Of all my days of misery,

O thought, that ever dost recur to me;

Of thy mysterious power

Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt

by Count Giacomo Leopardi