I'll read one more Pascoli poem.
This one was written as an epithalamium,
a poem for the wedding of a friend of his,
and it might be my favorite Pascoli poem of all.
And it's strange, though, as an epithalamium, a poem for-- that
he would have read it at his friend's wedding,
because it's kind of full of loneliness and death.
[LAUGHTER]
So, but it does--
there's also Eros, and at the end, hope.
So I suppose he might have gotten away with it.
The only thing I think you need to know
about this, at a certain point it refers
to la chioccetta, or the hen--
the hen-- and that's an Italian peasant term for the Pleiades,
the constellation.
So it's a poem that, it's called "Night Blooming Jasmine,"
and it sort of juxtaposes this flower
that blooms in the evening with this presumably newlywed,
newly married couple that are going up to the bedroom
at night after their wedding as seen from a distance.
And it's called "Il Gesomino Notturo" in Italian.
E s'aprono i fiori notturni, nell'ora che penso ai miei cari.
Sono apparse in mezzo ai viburni le farfalle crepuscolari.
Da un pezzo si tacquero i gridi: là sola una casa bisbiglia.
Sotto l’ali dormono i nidi, come gli occhi sotto le ciglia.
Dai calici aperti si esala l’odore di fragole rosse.
Splende un lume là nella sala. Nasce l’erba sopra le fosse.
Un’ape tardiva sussurra trovando già prese le celle.
La Chioccetta per l’aia azzurra va col suo pigolio di stelle.
Per tutta la notte s’esala l’odore che passa col vento.
Passa il lume su per la scala; brilla al primo piano: s’è spento...
È l’alba: si chiudono i petali un poco gualciti; si cova,
dentro l’urna molle e segreta, non so che felicità nuova.
"Night Blooming Jasmine."
"And in the hour when blooms unfurl,
thoughts of my loved ones come to me.
The moths of evening whirl around the snowball tree.
By now, no creature barks or sings.
From one house whispers come in rushes.
Nestlings sleep beneath wings like eyes beneath their lashes.
From the open calyxes flows a ripe strawberry scent in waves.
A lamp in the house glows.
Grasses are born on graves.
A bee returns late from its tours,
finds no cell vacant anymore.
The hen and her cheeping stars cross their threshing floor.
All through the night, the flowers flare,
scent flowing and catching the wind.
The lamp now climbs the stair, shines from above, goes dim.
It's dawn.
The petals, slightly worn, close up again,
each bud to brood in its soft, secret urn,
on some yet nameless good.