279. ‘Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde’

If the birds lament, or the green leaves

move gently in the summer breeze,

or soft murmurs of the clear waves

are heard from a fresh flowering river-bank,

where I sit thinking of love and writing,

then I see her whom heaven shows, earth hides,

and I hear and understand that she still lives,

though far away, responding to my sighs.

‘Ah, why are you so aged before your time?’

she asks with pity, ‘why does a sad stream

always flow from your grieving eyes?

Don’t weep for me, my days, in dying,

became eternal ones, and when the light

within seemed to darken, my eyes opened.’