Count Giacomo Leopardi

(29 June 1798 – 14 June 1837 / Rencanati)

To The Moon - Poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi

O lovely moon, how well do I recall
The time,--'tis just a year--when up this hill
I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,
As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
Thy countenance to me, because my eyes
Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
And _is_ so still, unchanged, belovèd moon!
And yet this recollection pleases me,
This computation of my sorrow's age.
How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,
When hope a long career before it hath,
And memories are few, upon the past
To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!


Comments about To The Moon by Count Giacomo Leopardi

  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/15/2015 1:13:00 PM)


    Italian text:

    XIV - ''ALLA LUNA''

    O graziosa luna, io mi rammento
    Che, or volge l'anno, sovra questo colle
    Io venia pien d'angoscia a rimirarti:
    E tu pendevi allor su quella selva
    Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari.
    Ma nebuloso e tremulo dal pianto
    Che mi sorgea sul ciglio, alle mie luci
    Il tuo volto apparia, che travagliosa
    Era mia vita: ed è, nè cangia stile,
    O mia diletta luna. E pur mi giova
    La ricordanza, e il noverar l'etate
    Del mio dolore. Oh come grato occorre
    Nel tempo giovanil, quando ancor lungo
    La speme e breve ha la memoria il corso,
    Il rimembrar delle passate cose,
    Ancor che triste, e che l'affanno duri!
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  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/15/2015 1:13:00 PM)


    another translation:

    ''To the Moon'' (XIV)

    O lovely moon, now I’m reminded

    how almost a year since, full of anguish,

    I climbed this hill to gaze at you again,

    and you hung there, over that wood, as now,

    clarifying all things. Filled with mistiness,

    trembling, that’s how your face seemed to me,

    with all those tears that welled in my eyes, so

    troubled was my life, and is, and does not change,

    O moon, my delight. And yet it does help me,

    to record my sadness and tell it, year by year.

    Oh how sweetly it hurts, when we are young,

    when hope has such a long journey to run,

    and memory is so short,

    this remembrance of things past, even if it

    is sad, and the pain lasts!
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 10, 2010



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