Last Voyage: Selected Poems of Giovanni Pascoli

XVII. Love

161 XVII. Love With the rosy light of the dawn, the roaring of the lions who, weary at last, slept with their muzzles stretched out along their paws, was no longer heard. The goddess also, pale herself, slept alone in the well-known bed, as dawn grew lighter. And the old hero spoke to the old poet: “Everyone has his own life; that’s it. But I will give a sign; with the lyre, poet, to you who keep a pure heart at a distance. But if I find again what my heart wishes for, I will send you a sign of war, as once I did, which means I will have thrown myself again into a horrendous fray, and that I, the hero of bronze stand above the naked dead: that your heart will understand, even at a distance.” So he spoke, and the silence of the lions and the goddess was all one heard in the dead of night. And each one went his own way, through woods and forests, mountains and valleys, and the hero heard nothing, unless it was an odd squall roaring in the oaks, or the eternal, distant song, of the sea. And he did not see the house, or the lions asleep with their muzzles on their paws, or his own goddess. But the sun is setting and already all the routes are shadowed. He had sent forth a sign of war to bring back to the old poet; and listened closely 162 e porse attento ad ogni aura l’orecchio se udisse almeno della cetra il canto; e sì, l’udì; traendo a lei, l’udiva, sempre più mesta, sempre più soave, cantar l’amore che dormia nel cuore, e che destato solo allor ti muore. La udì più presso, e non la vide, e vide nel folto mucchio delle foglie secche morto l’Aedo; e forse ora, movendo pel cammino invisibile, tra i pioppi e i salici che gettano il lor frutto, toccava ancora con le morte dita l’eburnea cetra: così mesto il canto n’era, e così lontano e così vano. Ma era in alto, a un ramo della quercia, la cetra arguta, ove l’avea sospesa Femio, morendo, a che l’Eroe chiamasse brillando al sole o tintinnando al vento: al vento che scotea gli alberi, al vento che portava il singulto ermo del mare. E l’Eroe pianse, e s’avviò notturno alla sua nave, abbandonando morto il dolce Aedo, sopra cui moveva le foglie secche e l’aurea cetra il vento. 163 to any sound the ear might hear, and heard at last the song of the lyre; yes, heard it; heard it, as he approached, always sadder, always sweeter, to sing of love that sleeps in the heart. The sound came closer, but he sees nothing, then sees in the thick heap of dead leaves, the dead poet; now moving along the surface invisibly, among poplars and willows that give him their fruits, and the dead fingers that touch the lyre again: the wind: so the song will be sad and far away and empty. But high up, there was the branch of an oak, the perfect lyre, in which the notes will hang, where Femius, dying, placed it, to cry out to the hero, to the sun shining, and the wind singing; to the wind which shortens trees, to the wind which carried a single sob from the sea. And the hero cried, as night began on the ship, after he had abandoned the dead, sweet poet, above whom the wind moved dry leaves and a golden lyre. ...