Xxxvii

“Non son quell'io che già d'amiche cene”

I am not he who amid wine cups flowing Rouses to joy the festive board of friends: Heavy with bitter weariness is going The time that to my mind no banquet sends.

Anger alone is that fierce life bestowing Over whose board my heart all ravenous bends. O fair green years when brightest hopes were growing That now lie withered as when summer ends!

Even the charm of sweet imagination No more its soul-beguiling power retains, But in its place stands life, mute, dread, appalling, And over all a shade whose intonation As if of grief that it alone remains To some still shore afar is ever calling. · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

JUVENILIA.