Giovanni Pascoli

(31 December 1855 - 6 April 1912 / San Mauro di Romagna)

The Gold Of Night - Poem by Giovanni Pascoli

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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Poem Submitted: Monday, September 20, 2010

Poem Edited: Saturday, December 31, 2011


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