Settembre:
Settembre, andiamo. E tempo di emigrare.
Ora in terra d'Abruzzi i miei pastori
lascian gli stazzi e vanno verso il mare,
scendono all'Adriatico selvaggio
ch'e' verdi e'come i pascoli dei monti.
Han bevuto profondamenti ai fonti
alpestri, che sapor d'acqua natia
rimanga nei cuori esuli a conforto
che lungo la loro sete in via.
Rinnovato hanno la verga d'avellano.
E vanno dal tratturo al piano
quasi per un urbal fiume silente,
sulle vestigia degli antichi padri,
O voce di colui ch'e primamente
conosce il trimolar della marina!,
Ora lungh'esso il litoral cammina
la greggia, senza mutamento e' l'aria.
Il sole imbionde si' la viva lana
che quasi dalla sabbia non divaria. Isciacquio, calpestio, dolce rumori,
Oh! perche' non sono io co'miei pastori?.
September, let's depart. Its time to migrate.
Now in the land of Abruzzi my shepherds leave the sheep penns and head for the sea" they deshend towrds the wilderness of the Adriatic that is green as the mountain pasture.
They have drunk deeply at the alpine springs, so the taste of the native water remain to comfort their exiled hearts and long beguile heir thirst during the jurney. they have fashioned a staff from a hazelnut tree.
And they leave the ancient tratturo for the plain, as if they were on a silent grassy river, on the footstep of their ancient fathers. O voice of the one that is first in recognizing the shimmering of the sea?.
Now along the coast the flock is walking. The air is still. The sun turn the lively wool so golden as to become undistinguished from the sand on the beach. noice of waves, of animals steps, sweet sounds.
Ah! why i am not with ma shepherds! D'Annunzio
San Martino
ma per le vie del borgo
On the slopes of bristly hills
With a drizzle the fog is rising
And under the northwest wind
Howls the sea covered with foam.
But on the street of the village
Out of the fermenting vats
Comes the sharp odor of the wine.
To cheer ones soul.
Over the burning logs.
The spit turn crackling
While huneter at the door
Gazes whistling in the distance.
Through reddish clouds
Focks of black birds
That like wondering thoughts
Migrate in the evening.
Carducci