(Please check out this poem on the Italian Poetry website for the full experience: help with the translation, listening to the reading out loud, and some more notes to the most difficult words.)

We are back with another staple poem that everyone my age is familiar with, and has probably had to at least partially know by heart at some point during their studies.

As a little testament of how ingrained it is in the collective Italian school unconscious, you can see it recited by the comedian Renato Pozzetto in one of his movies, as a grade teacher dealing with very rambunctious students.

The poem is set in Summer, in the titular pine grove and during the titular shower. The poet revels in the luxurious life that surrounds him, and urges his lover to listen to the sounds that envelop them.

It is the epitome of a musical poem, with free verses, rhymes, alliterations, onomatopoeia and all sorts of devices employed to convey the rich soundscape — but also the general sensoriality of the experience of being surrounded by nature and the resulting aesthetic enjoyment.

This Ermione the poem addresses is not a young wizard nerd but rather a classical nickname that hides none other than the then-stellarly-famous actress, Eleonora Duse, lover of D’Annunzio.

So… listen!

And here are the full text:

Taci. Su le soglie
del bosco non odo
parole che dici
umane; ma odo
parole più nuove
che parlano gocciole e foglie
lontane.
Ascolta. Piove
dalle nuvole sparse.
Piove su le tamerici
salmastre ed arse,
piove sui pini
scagliosi ed irti,
piove su i mirti
divini,
su le ginestre fulgenti
di fiori accolti,
su i ginepri folti
di coccole aulenti,
piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove su le nostre mani
ignude,
su i nostri vestimenti
leggeri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l’anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
t’illuse, che oggi m’illude,
o Ermione.

Odi? La pioggia cade
su la solitaria
verdura
con un crepitio che dura
e varia nell’aria secondo le fronde
più rade, men rade.
Ascolta. Risponde
al pianto il canto
delle cicale
che il pianto australe
non impaura,
né il ciel cinerino.
E il pino
ha un suono, e il mirto
altro suono, e il ginepro
altro ancora, stromenti
diversi
sotto innumerevoli dita.
E immensi
noi siam nello spirito
silvestre,
d’arborea vita viventi;
e il tuo volto ebro
è molle di pioggia
come una foglia,
e le tue chiome
auliscono come
le chiare ginestre,
o creatura terrestre
che hai nome
Ermione.

Ascolta, Ascolta. L’accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall’umida ombra remota.
Più sordo e più fioco
s’allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancor trema, si spegne,
risorge, trema, si spegne.
Non s’ode voce del mare.
Or s’ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l’argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.
Ascolta.
La figlia dell’aria
è muta: ma la figlia
del limo lontana,
la rana,
canta nell’ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.

Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sì che par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le palpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l’erbe,
i denti negli alveoli
son come mandorle acerbe.
E andiam di fratta in fratta,
or congiunti or disciolti
(e il verde vigor rude
ci allaccia i melleoli
c’intrica i ginocchi)
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove su le nostre mani
ignude,
su i nostri vestimenti
leggeri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l’anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
m’illuse, che oggi t’illude,
o Ermione.

and my too-literal translation:

Be silent. On the thresholds
of the forest I do not hear
human words that you say;
but I hear
newer words
that distant droplets and leaves
speak.
Listen. It rains
from the sparse clouds.
It rains on the tamarisks
brackish and parched,
it rains on the pines
scaly and bristly,
it rains on the myrtles
divine,
on the brooms fulgent
with closed flowers,
on the junipers dense
of fragrant berries,
it rains on our sylvan
faces,
it rains on our nude
hands,
on our light
vestments,
on the fresh thoughts
that the novel soul
discloses,
on the beautiful fable
that yesterday
deluded you, that today deludes me,
o Hermione.

Do you hear? The rain falls
on the solitary
verdure
with a crackling that lasts
and varies in the air according to the fronds
more sparse, less sparse.
Listen. Responds
to the weeping the song
of the cicadas
that the austral weeping
does not frighten,
nor [does] the ashen sky.
And the pine
has a sound, and the myrtle
another sound, and the juniper
another still, diverse
instruments
under innumerable fingers.
And immense
we are in the sylvan
spirit,
living with arboreal life;
and your inebriated visage
is soft with rain
like a leaf,
and your tresses
are fragrant like
the bright brooms,
oh terrestrial creature
that have [the] name
Hermione.

Listen, Listen. The accord
of the aerial cicadas
little by little
more muted
becomes under the weeping
that grows;
but a song there mingles itself
more hoarse
that from down there rises,
from the humid remote shadow.
More muted and more faint
it slackens itself, it extinguishes itself.
A note alone
still trembles, it extinguishes itself,
resurges, trembles, it extinguishes itself.
One does not hears [the] voice of the sea.
Now one hears on all the frond
the silvery rain
pouring down
that cleanses,
the downpour that varies
according to the frond
more dense, less dense.
Listen.
The daughter of the air
is mute: but the distant daughter
of the mud,
the frog,
sings in the shadow most deep,
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione.

It rains on your black eyelashes
so that it seems you are weeping
but of pleasure; not white
but almost made verdant,
it seems [that] you emerge from bark.
And all life is in us fresh
fragrant,
the heart in the chest is like
[an] intact peach,
between the eyelids the eyes
are like springs among the herbs,
the teeth in the alveoli
are like unripe almonds.
And we go from thicket to thicket,
now conjoined now dissolved
(and the green rough vigor
binds the ankles to us
[and] entangles the knees to us)
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on our faces
sylvan,
it rains on our nude
hands,
on our light
vestments,
on the fresh thoughts
that the soul discloses
novel,
on the beautiful fable
that yesterday
deluded me, that today deludes you,
oh Hermione.