Gabriele D’Annunzio's "The Rain in the Pinewood"

The Rain in the Pinewood

Be silent. At the edge

of the wood I do not hear

the human words you say;

I hear newer words

spoken by droplets and leaves

far away. 

Listen. It rains

from the scattered clouds.

It rains on the briny, burned

tamarisk,

it rains on the pine trees

scaly and rough,

it rains on the divine

myrtle,

on the bright genista flowers

gathered together,

on the junipers full of

fragrant berries,

it rains on our sylvan faces,

it rains on our bare hands

on our light clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed,

liberates,

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled you yesterday,

that beguiles me today,

oh Hermione.

  

Can you hear?

The rain falls

on the solitary vegetation

with a crackling noise that lasts

and varies in the air

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage. 

Listen.

With their singing, the cicadas

are answering this weeping,

this southern wind weeping

that does not frighten them,

and nor does the grey sky.

And the pine tree

has a sound, the myrtle

another one, the juniper

yet another, different

instruments

under countless fingers. 

And we are immersed

in the sylvan spirit,

living the same

sylvan life;

and your inebriated face

is soft from the rain,

like a leaf,

and your hair

is fragrant like the light

genista flowers,

oh terrestrial creature

called Hermione.

  

Listen, listen!

The song of the flying cicadas

becomes fainter and fainter

as the weeping grows stronger;

but a rougher song

rises from afar,

and flows in

from the humid remote shadow.

Softer and softer

gets weaker, fades away.

One lonely note

still trembles, fades away.

No one can hear the voice of the sea.

Now you can hear the silver rain

pouring in

on the foliage,

rain that purifies,

its roar that varies

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage.

Listen.

The child of the air is silent;

but the child

of the miry swamp, the frog,

far away,

sings in the deepest of shadows

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on your lashes,

Hermione.

It rains on your black lashes

as if you were weeping,

weeping from joy; not white

but almost green,

you seem to come out of the bark.

And life is in us fresh

and fragrant,

the heart in our chests is like a peach

untouched

under the eyelids our eyes

are like springs in the grass

and the teeth in our mouths

green almonds.

And we go from thicket to thicket,

at a time together, at a time apart

(the vegetation, thick and vigorous,

entwines our ankles

entangles our knees)

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on our sylvan faces,

it rains on our bare hands

on our light clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed, liberates,

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled me yesterday,

that beguiles you today,

oh Hermione.

Gabriele D’Annunzio: The Collection of Poems in English. The most comprehensive English translation of the poetry of Gabriele D'Annunzio.