From G. Pascoli - November Poem by Paolo Giuseppe Mazzarello

The air is gem-like, and the sun so clear
That you're in search of the apricot trees in blossom,
And in the heart you smell
The bitter little scent of the hawthorn.

But the plum is dried, and the bare dried up trees
Draw black pictures on the clear sky,
And the hollow ground resounds under the trampling,
And heaven seems empty.

Silence, all around: only in the distance from gardens and truck farms
You hear the fragile leaves that fall when the wind blows.
It's the cold Indian summer.
(Translated from Italian by P.G.Mazzarello)