Last Voyage: Selected Poems of Giovanni Pascoli

XII. The Rudder

141 XII. The Rudder And now, just as the old hero appeared, they all rose, eyes fixed on him. As when oxen, in the sharpness of winter, lie down, tied, before their trough, spread out on the ground, chewing their food, humble, while the rain falls in heavy sheets; if a peasant comes with a bundle of sweet smelling hay, they rise, but slowly, their eyes never losing sight of the bundle: so these old men rose, but not one of them approached the hero, for they were held back by awe. And he, from beneath the scraggly skull of a wolf, spoke this to them through the smashing of the waves: “Companions, hear what my own heart asks since the time that I returned at last forever. ‘Forever?’ I asked, and ‘no,’ answered my heart. My heart wanted to return, but it did not want it all to end. If the oars, far back in the woods, now root themselves in the ground, there will be green fir trees again. But no! The black ship cannot produce, as the wind whistles, the shadow of the pine tree. And the ship does not seek after gnawing rot, but instead seeks waves, winds, storms. And I too, want the clouds and not smoke from a hearth, the wind and not the whirring spindle, not the hateful hearth that spits and coughs, but the sky and the sea that shine and sing. Companions, I am just like our sea which is white 142 ch’è bianco all’orlo, ma cilestro in fondo. Io non so che, lasciai, quando alla fune diedi, lo stolto che pur fui, la scure; nell’antro a mare ombrato da un gran lauro, nei prati molli di viola e d’appio, o dove erano cani d’oro a guardia, immortalmente, della grande casa, e dove uomini in forma di leoni battean le lunghe code in veder noi, o non so dove. E vi ritorno. Io vedo che ciò che feci è già minor del vero. Voi lo sapete, che portaste al lido negli otri l’orzo triturato, e il vino color di fiamma nel ben chiuso doglio, che l’uno è sangue e l’altro a noi midollo. E spalmaste la pece alla carena, ch’è come l’olio per l’ignudo atleta; e portaste le gomene che serpi dormono in groppo o sibilano ai venti; e toglieste le pietre, anche portaste l’aerea vela; alla dormente nave, che sempre sogna nel giacere in secco, portaste ognun la vostra ala di remo; e ora dunque alla ben fatta nave che manca più, vecchi compagni? Al mare la vecchia nave: amici, ecco il timone. Così parlò tra il sussurrìo dell’onde. 143 at the shore and surface, but clear blue beneath it. I could not know what I gave up, younger fool that I was, when I put the axe to the rope; in a cave by the sea shaded with laurel, in the gentle fields of violet and anise, where the golden dogs, immortal, stood guard over the great house, and where men, in the shape of lions lashed their long tails whenever and wherever they saw us. And so I’ll return there. Now I see how my deeds are less than true. You know well, you who carried the crushed barley in goat skins, and also the wine, the color of flame, in tightly sealed casks, for one is marrow, the other our own blood. And those of you who painted the hull with pitch, which is like oil for the naked athlete, and those who carried the heavy ropes which are serpentine sleeping in knots or hissing in the wind; and those who cleared away the stones, and carried the bilious sail; and each of you who carried his winged oar to the sleeping black ship that dreams forever when grounded. And so now, my old companions, now— what are we missing? Let’s sail it! Dear old companions, grab the rudder!” And so he spoke through the sea’s murmuring. ...