The Gold of Night
In the houses where one
still converses with neighbors
beside the fire; where already
the daughter-in-law brings to
Grandma her babies,
one in her arms, two by the hand;
through the black chimney,
amid the crackling of logs,
the wind carries a sound long and slow:
three, five, seven chimes
from a village very far away:
three, five, seven voices
of people, slow and languid:
voices from a hamlet at the crosses,
people who no longer have anything.
Be silent! Silent! Silent!
We do not want to know.
Night? Day? Winter? Summer?
Silent, you with that cradle!
See that the infant does not cry. Be
silent! Silent! Silent! Silent!
We do not want to remember
wine and wheat, mountains and plains,
the cabins, the hearth.
Mother, babies, Be silent!
Silent! Silent! Silent! Silent!
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Comments about this poem (The Gold of Night by Giovanni Pascoli )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(8 December 1943 -)
(January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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