Count Giacomo Leopardi

(29 June 1798 – 14 June 1837 / Rencanati)

Count Giacomo Leopardi Poems

1. The Ruling Thought 4/10/2010
2. The Younger Brutus 4/10/2010
3. To Angelo Mai, 4/10/2010
4. To A Victor In A Game Of Pallone 4/10/2010
5. To His Sister Paolina, 4/10/2010
6. To Count Carlo Pepoli 4/10/2010
7. The Resurrection 4/10/2010
8. Younger Brutus 3/23/2012
9. To The Beloved 4/10/2010
10. The Setting Of The Moon 4/10/2010
11. To The Spring 4/10/2010
12. To Himself 4/10/2010
13. To Italy (1818) 4/10/2010
14. The Village Saturday Night 4/10/2010
15. To Sylvia 4/10/2010
16. To The Moon 4/10/2010
17. Fragment I 4/10/2010
18. Hymn To The Patriarchs 4/10/2010
19. Palinodia 4/10/2010
20. On An Old Sepuchral Bas-Relief 4/10/2010
21. Consalvo 4/10/2010
22. Recollections 4/10/2010
23. Aspasia 4/10/2010
24. Scherzo 4/10/2010
25. Fragment Ii 4/10/2010
26. The Ginestra, 4/10/2010
27. Chorus Of The Dead 4/10/2010
28. Imitation 4/10/2010
29. Love And Death 4/10/2010
30. The Last Song Of Sappho 4/10/2010
31. The Lonely Sparrow 4/10/2010
32. The Dream 4/10/2010
33. First Love 4/10/2010
34. On Dante's Monument, 1818 4/10/2010
35. The Evening Of The Holiday 4/10/2010
36. Calm After Storm 4/10/2010
37. The Lonely Life 4/10/2010
38. On The Portrait Of A Beautiful Woman, 4/10/2010
39. L'Infinito 1/1/2004
40. Night Song Of A Wandering Shepherd In Asia 4/10/2010
Best Poem of Count Giacomo Leopardi

The Infinite

This solitary hill has always been dear to me
And this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most of
The endless horizon.
But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughts
Endless spaces beyond the hedge,
An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet,
To the point that my heart is almost overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind rustling through the trees
I compare its voice to the infinite silence.
And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past,
And the present time, and its sound.
Amidst this immensity my thought drowns:
And to founder in this sea ...

Read the full of The Infinite

Consalvo

Approaching now the end of his abode
On earth, Consalvo lay; complaining once,
Of his hard fate, but now quite reconciled,
When, in the midst of his fifth lustre, o'er
His head oblivion, so longed-for, hung.
As for some time, so, on his dying day,
He lay, abandoned by his dearest friends:
For in the world, few friends to _him_ will cling,
Who shows that he is weary of the world.

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