G I A C O M O L E O P A R D I (1798-1837)
The Infinite
This lonely hill was always dear to me.
So is the hedge that, rising in my view,
keeps me from seeing much of the far horizon.
But sitting here surveying those endless spaces,
absorbing the surrounding silences,
the deepest quiet spreading through my mind,
I find my heart is almost overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind, the speaking wind
that whispers through the trees, I hear in it
infinite silence. That is when I know
the sound of eternity, the long-dead years,
the living present, and the sound of that.
My thoughts are drowning in immensity
and it is sweet to shipwreck in this sea.
Translated by Jan Schreiber
The Infinite
This lonely hill was always dear to me.
So is the hedge that, rising in my view,
keeps me from seeing much of the far horizon.
But sitting here surveying those endless spaces,
absorbing the surrounding silences,
the deepest quiet spreading through my mind,
I find my heart is almost overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind, the speaking wind
that whispers through the trees, I hear in it
infinite silence. That is when I know
the sound of eternity, the long-dead years,
the living present, and the sound of that.
My thoughts are drowning in immensity
and it is sweet to shipwreck in this sea.
Translated by Jan Schreiber