WEBVTT

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I'll read one more Pascoli poem.

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This one was written
as an epithalamium,

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a poem for the wedding
of a friend of his,

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and it might be my favorite
Pascoli poem of all.

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And it's strange, though, as an
epithalamium, a poem for-- that

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he would have read it
at his friend's wedding,

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because it's kind of full
of loneliness and death.

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[LAUGHTER]

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So, but it does--

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there's also Eros,
and at the end, hope.

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So I suppose he might
have gotten away with it.

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The only thing I
think you need to know

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about this, at a
certain point it refers

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to la chioccetta, or the hen--

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the hen-- and that's an Italian
peasant term for the Pleiades,

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the constellation.

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So it's a poem that, it's
called "Night Blooming Jasmine,"

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and it sort of
juxtaposes this flower

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that blooms in the evening
with this presumably newlywed,

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newly married couple that
are going up to the bedroom

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at night after their wedding
as seen from a distance.

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And it's called "Il Gesomino
Notturo" in Italian.

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E s'aprono i fiori notturni,
nell'ora che penso ai miei cari.

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Sono apparse in mezzo ai viburni
le farfalle crepuscolari.

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Da un pezzo si tacquero i gridi:
là sola una casa bisbiglia.

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Sotto l’ali dormono i nidi,
come gli occhi sotto le ciglia.

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Dai calici aperti si esala
l’odore di fragole rosse.

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Splende un lume là nella sala.
Nasce l’erba sopra le fosse.

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Un’ape tardiva sussurra
trovando già prese le celle.

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La Chioccetta per l’aia azzurra
va col suo pigolio di stelle.

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Per tutta la notte s’esala
l’odore che passa col vento.

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Passa il lume su per la scala;
brilla al primo piano: s’è spento...

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È l’alba: si chiudono i petali
un poco gualciti; si cova,

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dentro l’urna molle e segreta,
non so che felicità nuova.

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"Night Blooming Jasmine."

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"And in the hour
when blooms unfurl,

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thoughts of my loved
ones come to me.

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The moths of evening whirl
around the snowball tree.

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By now, no creature
barks or sings.

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From one house whispers
come in rushes.

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Nestlings sleep beneath wings
like eyes beneath their lashes.

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From the open calyxes flows a
ripe strawberry scent in waves.

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A lamp in the house glows.

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Grasses are born on graves.

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A bee returns late
from its tours,

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finds no cell vacant anymore.

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The hen and her cheeping stars
cross their threshing floor.

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All through the night,
the flowers flare,

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scent flowing and
catching the wind.

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The lamp now climbs the stair,
shines from above, goes dim.

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It's dawn.

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The petals, slightly
worn, close up again,

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each bud to brood in
its soft, secret urn,

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on some yet nameless good.

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