Giovanni Pascoli was an Italian poet and classical scholar.
Giovanni Pascoli was born at San Mauro di Romagna (in his honor renamed "San Mauro Pascoli" in 1932), into a well-to-do family. He was the fourth of ten children of Ruggero Pascoli and Caterina Vincenzi Alloccatelli. His father was administrator of an estate of farm land of the Princes Torlonia on which the Pascoli family lived.
On the evening of Aug. 10, 1867 as Ruggero Pascoli was returning home from the market at Cesena in a carriage drawn by a black and white mare (una cavalla storna), he was shot and killed by an assassin hiding in a ditch by the road. The mare continued slowly ... more »
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Giovanni Pascoli Poems
And the night-blooming flowers open, open in the same hour I remember those I love. In the middle of the viburnums the twilight butterflies have appeared.
Out of a motionless infernal shudder and clang of steel on steel as wagons moved toward the eternal, a sudden silence: I was healed.
La Quercia Caduta
Dov’era l’ombra, or sé la quercia spande morta, né più coi turbini tenzona. La gente dice: Or vedo: era pur grande!
In The Fog
I stared into the valley: it was gone— wholly submerged! A vast flat sea remained, gray, with no waves, no beaches; all was one.
And the blue sea loved him, swept him far out for nine days and nights, swept him to a distant island, to the cave covered with leaves
Gemmea l’aria, il sole così chiaro che tu ricerchi gli albicocchi in fiore, e del prunalbo l’odorino amaro senti nel cuore
The swan sings. From deep in the marshes, its voice chimes sharp and clear like the striking of copper cymbals.
The Gold of Night
In the houses where one still converses with neighbors beside the fire; where already the daughter-in-law brings to
XXIII. The Truth
And there was a flowering garden in the sea, in a sea glossy as the sky; and a song of two Sirens did not resound yet, because the meadow was distant.
Comments about Giovanni Pascoli
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
And the night-blooming flowers open,
open in the same hour I remember those I love.
In the middle of the viburnums
the twilight butterflies have appeared.
After a while all noise will quiet.
There, only a house is whispering.
Nests sleep under wings,
like eyes under eyelashes.
Open goblets exhale
the perfume of strawberries.
A light shines there in the room,
grass sprouts over the graves.
A late bee buzzes at the hive
finding all the cells taken.
The Hen runs through the sky’s blue
yard to the chirping of stars.
The whole night ...