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The Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne - Lorenzo de 'Medici the


How beautiful youth who flees though!
Who wants to be happy, either:
in tomorrow there is no certainty.

this or Bacchus and Ariadne,
beautiful, and the other an ardent:
because 'the time flies, and tricks, along with standard
always happy.

These nymphs and other people are happy, however.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
. These forward

satiretti,
nymphs in love,
for caves and woods have their place one hundred
ambushes;
ago by Bacchus heated
ballon, but Salton.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
.

These nymphs also have dear
be deceived by them:
hours
suonon mixed together, Canton, however.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
.

This burden, which comes after him
on the donkey is Silenus:
so old and drunk and happy, already
meat and full of years;
if he can not stand up, laugh and enjoy at least
however.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
.

Mida comes after him to them:
what touches becomes gold.
what shall it profit you darling, if none then
not satisfied?
Who wants to be happy, either:
of tomorrow there is no certainty. Each

open ears well, no one in tomorrow
pastures;
today are young and old,
pleased everyone, males and females;
every sad thought helmets
party, however, that we form.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
. Women and youths

lovers,
live Bacchus and long live Love! Each
sounds, dances and songs! Arda
the core of sweetness!
no fatigue, no pain! That which has the
be, it behooves both.
Who wants to be happy, either: there is no certainty in tomorrow
.

Poetry (song), written probably in 1490. Describes the parade of mythical, invented by the author

Lorenzo Piero di Cosimo de 'Medici , called the Magnificent (Florence, January 1, 1449 - Careggi, Florence, April 8, 1492)

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Sera - Ugo Foscolo

Perhaps because of the fatal quiet
you're the imago
come to me so dear, or evening! And when you Corteggiani happy
the summer clouds and calm breezes,

and when air from the snowy darkness, and long restless
universe phenomena
always relied come down, and the secret ways
gently hold of my heart.

Vagar make me co 'my thoughts about the tracks that go
anything ever, and while fleeing
this time offender, and the van with him hordes

care so he destroys me, and while I look at
your peace, sleeping
who enter the warrior spirit groans.

sonnet written in 1803

Ugo Foscolo (Zakynthos, February 6, 1778 - London, September 10, 1827)

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On Saturday in the village - Giacomo Leopardi


The maiden from the countryside into the sunset,
with his bundle of grass, and is holding
a bunch of roses and violets,
waves, as wont, she is going ornate
tomorrow, a day of celebration, chest and hair.
sits with neighboring
up the ladder the old woman in rows,
meeting where you lose the day and
News is its good weather, when the
of the party she decorated, and even healthy, lean

sun danced on the evening of intra
those who once had the most beautiful companions age.
already darkening the air, the clear blue
back, and they return the shadows
off 'packages and' roof, the whitening of the recent
moon. Or the phone call

sign of the party who comes

would you say that sound and that the heart is comforted. The children crying

on open space in the crowd, and
jumping here and there, make a joyful noise
;
and meanwhile he returns to his frugal meal,
whistling, the digger,
him and thinks of his rest.

Then when around each other is off face, and all the other silent
,
hear the hammer hit, hate
saw the carpenter, who watches
closed shop in the lamp,
and impatient, and s'adopra
to provide the deed to the contrary brightening dawn.

This is the most welcome of seven days,
full of hope and joy, sadness and boredom
Diman
recheran the hours, and the labor used in each
his thoughts will return.

playful lad,
Cotesta
flowering age is like a day full of joy,
clear day, peaceful,
that precedes the celebration of your life.
Rejoice, my child, was sweet, happy
season is that tub.
Others do not wish to say, 'But your party
ch'anco to come later will not be serious.

Poem written in 1829 in Recanati

Giacomo Leopardi (Recanati, June 29, 1798 - Naples, June 14, 1837)

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ancient plants - Carducci

tree toward which the little girl
hand, the
pomegranate green
from 'beautiful scarlet flowers, garden

in silent solitary
revive everything just now and June

restores the light and heat. You

flower of my plant
beaten and withered, useless life
you de l'extreme
single flower,

art in the cold earth,
art in the land negra
neither the sun nor
more you glad you love awakens.

Poem written in 1871 in memory of her son Dante

Carducci (Valdicastello, July 27, 1835 - Bologna, February 16, 1907)

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Cavalla Transfer - Giovanni Pascoli

the Tower silence was high.
whispering poplars Salto del Rio.
Norman horses to put their
frangean the corn with rumors of splits.
Over there the horse was wild,
born among the pine trees on the beach sauce;
that had nostrils in the spray of the sea again,
and screaming in my ears sharp. With the crib
on one elbow, it
was my mother and tells her softly:
"O horse, horse transfers,
that carried him not return, you
you understood her sign and told her!
He left a young son, the first of
'eight of my sons and daughters;
and his hand never touched reins.
you that you feel the hurricane to the sides, you
you listen to his little hand.
man who has you in the heart of the barren sea,
you girl you listen to his voice. " The horse wheeled

the gaunt head toward my mother, who said more sad:
"O horse, horse transfers,
that carried him not return;
I know, I know that you loved strong!
With him, you were there alone and his death. O
born in the woods between the waves and wind, you
you held your heart in fright;
period in the mouth feeling the bite, in the heart
fast you premesti course:
slowly seguitasti your way, why did
in peace ... the agony "
The head was bare long daccanto
the sweet face of my mother in tears.
" O horse, horse transfers,
that carried him not return;
oh! although he was obliged to say a few words!
And you know, but you can not complain. You
with free rein in its paws, in the eyes
with the fire of flames,
in the ears with the echo of explosions,
seguitasti the way among the tall poplars
between the reported death of the sun, because
udissimo us his words. "
He was careful to show long head.
My mother hugged her on the mane
" O horse, horse transfers,
brought to his house who does not Back!
To me, those who will not return ever!
You were good ... But you can not speak!
You do not know, poor thing, others dare not.
Oh! but you have to tell me something!
You've seen the man who killed him: it
thee here in the pupils FISE.
Who was? Who is it? I want to say a name.
And you mention. God teach you, how. "
Now, the horses do not frangean the corn:
dormian dreaming of the white road.
The straw with the nail battean not empty:
dormian dreaming of the roller wheels.
My mother raised a finger in the silence:
said a name ... They are a high nitrite.

Poem written after the death of his father in mysterious circumstances in August 1867

Giovanni Pascoli Placido Augustine (San Mauro di Romagna, December 31, 1855 - Bologna, April 6, 1912)

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The Cinque Maggio - Alessandro Manzoni

Ei fu. Because still, given the
mortal sigh, stood the bare

orba from time immemorial breath,
well beaten, stunned
the earth is the nuncio,

outline planning last hours of man
fatal
or knows if a similar footprint
pie 'deadly
its bloody dust
will trample on.

brilliant in Solio
He saw my genius, and was silent;
when, instead assiduous
fell, and lay resources,
of a thousand voices to Sonito
mixed his did not:

maid servant of praise and
cowardly outrage, or moved to sudden rises

long-range shots, and melts
urn
a song that maybe not die.

From the Alps to the Pyramids, Manzanares
from the Rhine, that's a sure

was holding the lightning flash behind;
burst by Scilla at Tanai,
from one to another Tues

was real glory? For posterity will judge
: nui
chiniam the front of the Massimo
Maker, who wanted him in his mind of the creator

larger footprint print.

the storm and anxious
joy of a great design,
the anxiety of a heart that is
restive, thinking of the kingdom
and comes and takes a prize
that it was madness to hope;

all and felt the glory after
most danger,
escape and victory,
the palace and the sad exile;
twice in the dust,
twice on the altar. Ei is

He named two centuries, one
against each other armed
subdued him turned, as if waiting
fate;
and fe 'silence, he sat down and referee
among them.

and disappeared, and the day in idleness
closed in so short a bank, a sign of immense

envy and deep piety, of
inestinguibil
and hatred of untamed love.

How to castaway on the head and weighs s'avvolve
the wave, the wave
on which the poor, but even now
high and tense,
scorrea sight to discern
remote shores in vain;

this on that ' alma
a combination of memories came down.
How often narrating himself to posterity
business, and ethics
pages
fell to the tired man!

Oh, how often, the tacit
a day die of inert
lie close to the lightning-rai, sen
her arms folded, stood
, and the day we were
assalse to recollect!

and rethink furniture
tents, beaten and valleys, and lightning
de 'handpieces,
and the wave of the horses, and an excited

powers and swift obeyed.

Ouch! perhaps as much havoc
fell the spirit yearns,
and despair, but it was a valid
man from heaven, and more breathability

pitiful air transport;

and the launch pei flourishing
path of hope, to
eternal fields, premium
that would like to make, where silence and darkness

the glory that had passed.

Bella Immortal! Faith beneficial
accustomed to triumphs!
Writing even this cheerful,
most superb
height of dishonor to Golgotha \u200b\u200b
ne'er be lowered. You tired from the ashes


disperses each estuary word
lands and the God who inspires, who
breathless and comforting, the deserted
coltrice
placed beside him.

Poem written in 1821 and dedicated to Napoleon

Alessandro Manzoni (Milan, March 7, 1785 - Milan, May 22, 1873)

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Infinity - Giacomo Leopardi

always been dear to me was this hill,
And this hedge, which has so much De
the farthest horizon excludes.
But as I sit and gaze,
limitless space beyond that, and superhuman
silences, and deepest quiet in
I thought I pretend, if just for
heart is overwhelmed. And as I hear the wind rustling through the trees
I
that infinite silence to this entry
comparing Vo: and I am reminded of the eternal,
And the dead seasons, and this
is alive, and 'the sound of it. So in this
Infinity my thought is drowned:
It 's sweet to shipwreck in this sea.

Written Poetry between 1818 and 1821, during a visit to Recanati, Marche.

Giacomo Leopardi (Recanati, June 29, 1798 - Naples, June 14, 1837)