The Quilietti Family

The story of a Scots Italian family


Before Giovanni Pascoli moved to the wee village it was known only as Castelvecchio, as are many dotted throughout Italy.

Giovanni Pascoli in his most famous pose

Giovanni Pascoli is Italy’s greatest poet and he is responsible for the re-naming of the village.  He moved to the village in 1895 and from the house, which looks onto the back of the wee Church of St. Nicoli’ and from where they share a small orchard, he wrote poetry which now is taught in the schools and colleges of ITALY.

Giovanni Pascoli was born at San Mauro di Romagna (in his honor renamed “San Mauro Pascoli” in 1855), 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 on her way and brought home the body of her slain master. The murderer was never apprehended.

Giovanni Pascoli had a tragic childhood, struck by the murder of his father and the early deaths of his mother, sister and two brothers, and the subsequent financial decline of the family. The father’s assassination echoes in particular in one of his most popular poems, “La cavallina storna” . His whole first work, Myricae (1891), reflects his unhappy childhood.


In 1871 he moved to Rimini with six of his brothers. Here he made friends with Andrea Costa, and began to participate in Socialist demonstrations. This led to another key event in Pascoli’s life, his brief imprisonment in Bologna following a protest against the capture of the anarchist Giovanni Passannante.

Pascoli studied at the University of Bologna, where his teacher and mentor was Giosuè Carducci. He graduated in 1882, and began to teach in high schools in Matera and Massa. He lived next to his sisters Ida and Maria, in an attempt to renew the original family, building a “nest” (as he called it) for the sisters and himself. Although he was almost married, it is speculated that he never did because of an immature and perhaps ambiguous relationship with his sisters.

The View of the Valley from Castelvecchio Pascoli

In the meantime he began to collaborate with the magazine Vita nuova, which published his first poems later collected in Myricae. In 1894 Pascoli was called to Rome to work for the Ministry of Public Instruction, and there he published the first version of Poemi conviviali. Later he moved between cities living in Bologna, Florence and Messina, but remained always psychologically rooted to his original, idealized peasant origins.

In 1895 he and his sister Maria moved into a house at Castelvecchio, near Barga, in Tuscany, bought with money gained from literary awards. The political and social turmoil of the early 20th century, which was to lead to Italy’s participation in World War I and to the advent of Fascism, further strengthened Pascoli’s insecurity and pessimism.

From 1897 to 1903 he taught Latin at the University of Messina, and then in Pisa. When Carducci retired, Pascoli replaced him as professor of Italian literature at the University of Bologna. In 1912, already ill of cirrhosis (from alcohol abuse), Giovanni Pascoli died of liver cancer at the age of 56 in Bologna. An atheist, he was entombed in the chapel annexed to his house at Castelvecchio, where his beloved sister, Maria, would also be laid to rest.

He was born in Bologna in the year 1855.  Giovanni Pascoli was an Italian poet and classical scholar who lived between 1855 and 1912. In 1895 Giovanni Pascoli and his sister moved to Castelvecchio, a small hamlet in the Serchio valley part of the municipality of Barga, and were inspired by the town, the people and the lifestyle to write the “Songs of Castelvecchio” along with other songs. Giovanni Pascoli spent a long time in Castelvecchio, devoting himself to poetry and to the study of classical literature (the three desks to work in three languages, Italian, Latin, Greek are famous and still visible). The work “Canti di Castelvecchio” is full of autobiographical references and depictions of rural life and dialectal terms of the area. You can still find the Museo Casa Pascoli and a chapel where Giovanni Pascoli is buried. The village of Castelvecchio Pascoli consists of two villages: Castelvecchio di Sopra and Castelvecchio di Sotto. The first is the oldest one and it’s also known as Caproni, from the name of an ancient family already present on site since the fourteenth century. Here you can find the church dedicated to St. Nicolao, built on the top of the hill, and the House of Pascoli. Castelvecchio di Sotto, today core of the village, has a more modern origin, although the spot has been noted from medieval times due to the existence of a Hospital. It was founded in the twelfth century near the bridge over the Serchio.

The Church of St. Nicoli with Fallon and Ian Quilietti walking up the Isle 2014

At the age of twelve Pascoli’s his father died, killed by a shot fired by unknown assailants, the family is forced to leave his father administered the estate, losing that state of economic well-being enjoyed. Over the next seven years, John lost his mother, a sister and two brothers. He continued his studies first in Florence, then in Bologna. In the Emilian city adheres to socialist ideas: during one of his propaganda activities in 1879 was arrested. He obtained a degree in Literature in 1882.

He started working as a professor teaching greek and latin in Matera, Massa and Livorno, and his goal is to gather around him the members of the family. During this period, the first public collections of poetry: “The last walk” (1886) and “Myricae” (1891)

The following year he won the first gold of his Latin poetry competition in Amsterdam, will take part several times over the years, winning a total of 13 gold medals. After a short stay in Rome he moved in Castelvecchio di Barga, a small Tuscan town where he bought a house and a vineyard

The vineyard from Pascoli's house to our wee church

After his death, the sister Maria, took care of Pascoli´s inheritance for 40 years; she faithfully preserved the structure, furniture and arrangement of the house. It was only after her death, on the 13th December 1953, that the house was bequeathed to the Municipality of Barga and underwent changes and improvements such as the installation of electric light.

Siblings outside their house

The house, now a national monument, is a three storey building surrounded by an orchard and a garden with a private chapel, restored by the poet in his lifetime, where he and his sister Maria are buried.

The house on the hill of Caprona was built by the Cardosi-Carrara family in the middle of the XVIIIth century as country residence. Pascoli used to say jokingly that he had bought the villa thanks to Horace and Virgil because part of the money came from the sale of 5 gold medals he had won in the Latin poetry competition held in Amsterdam. In the peace of his study, fondly cared for and far from academic burdens, Pascoli cultivated his love for the Latin language and poetry. The three storey building has seven rooms and preserves the structure, furniture and arrangement that it had at the time of Pascoli´s death.
In the study on the 1st floor are his books: Pascoli´s library contains 12000 volumes and can be consulted upon request; the archive on the ground floor, instead, contains manuscripts and a collection of periodicals up to 1935. The poet´s archive is one of the richest in Italy with 61000 manuscripts divided into three sections: Pascoli´s letters, autographs of his works and the letters of his sister Mariù. On the second floor are the poet´s study, a library and drawing room that opens on the so called ´Altana´, a terrace covered with bells from where you can enjoy the panorama so often praised by the poet in his works.

Part of his house on the Caproni Hill in Castelvecchio

Giovanni Pascoli

11. The bagpipes between sleep I heard the bagpipes,I heard a sound of lullabies. There are all the stars in the sky, there are the lights in the huts. They came from the mountains obscure the bagpipes without saying anything; I have awakened ‘its hovels all good poor people. Everyone arose from his couch, turn on the light under the beam; they know those lights and shadows yawn of cautious steps, serious voice. The pie lamps shine around, there in the house, here on the hedge: seems the earth, before day, a little guy big crib. In the blue sky all the stars as they seem to be waiting; and lo raise bagpipes their sweet sound of the church; the sound of the church, the cloister of sound,sound house, the sound of the cradle, the sound of mom, the sound of our sweet and past weep for nothing. Or bagpipes years early, ahead of the day, ahead of the real, or as the stars are there sublime,conscious of our short mystery that not even you think about the bread, which is not yet kindled the fire,before the cry of the bells therefore let us cry a little.Not more than anything, yes anything, so many things! But the heart wants, those tears that great then rests, that great pain that never hurts; above the new penis his true means those sobs without reason: on his martòro, at his pleasure, wants those ancient tears good! 12. Forever! I hate you?! … I love you no more, you see, do not love you … Remember that day? Far wore their feet one heart she thought of return. So I went back … you do not were there. To house was an echo of yesterday, of a long promise. And with meyou took only that echo: FOREVER! Do not hate you.But the echo subdued than the infinite promisecometh with me, and beat me in the heart with chopped throb of the hours; I yelled in the heart with the cry of fledgling fallen from the nest: FOREVER! I love you no. I looked, with a smile, in the prime of your bed springs. It has all of your eyes, but the face … not yours. And I kissed the little face foreign senz’urto veins. I said, “And to me, do you love me?””Yes, so much!” And your eyes fixed on me.”Forever?” I told her. He told me: “FOREVER!” I said, “You little girl and do not know who wants to always say never! ” He replied: “I do not know what that means? To always say die … Yes: fall asleep at night: to remain as had, FOREVER! ” 13. GrandmaOf all those curls in the wind, among all those blond corymbs, it seemed, that head of silver, said with trembling, children, small … yes, yes … And the kids were trying to party, sometimes with cry gleeful,aspens hands and head that had just live that poor yes.Yes, only; yes, always, part of the fire, from the humble throne; yes, for each burst of tears, for every prayer: forgiveness, yes … I want, yes … yes! Yes, well the bed of baby sick .. . Death watched, Death present in a nimbus … The tremulous head of the AVA said yes! yes! Yes, always; yes, only; the nightslong, very high! Black moved, to the groans interrupted, Death from the corner … There was that tremulous yes, that yes, in the bed … And yes, he tookhis grandmother, took it, letting the child live. Tensedthat head in a thrilling bland, last yea. 14. The song of the grenade I remember when you were a broom, with pendulous grains that the wind shook, like a little hand of the baby rattle silver? It fell the frost; the rainfell: birds passed groaning: thou puny and irrigation ditch tinnivi with Ramelli percent. And today no longer as yesterday you feel the rain and frost, but when you were sgrigioli as sorghum. II you remained neglected in the furrows quand’ogni cob was caught :you, seized when the yokels v’ararono again. An old man took you, cut, tied; you deprived of the beautifulred your seed; and you put it in the corner, to be servant. And you remain at home, in a corner,neglected here as over there, but no one is at home even as you are. III If t’odia him that the plot stretches in the high ceilings, the witty hen while loves you,which harbors the prey you do. It loves you even without, for the costs you Emboss, and grains steals,waste of time that you were sorghum, in the fields already own. But more , gracilando awaits you with what your wide robbery in the aftermath of the already sharp kitchen. IV You let t’odiino, leave that t’amino: outline your day, in the corner, remains, with bundles of sticks that await the oven. In the day you stay, thoughtful cockcrow; if the child you already do not pay, that is, and you want the horse. overs, with him holding you back, straws ch’hai removed, and much more; and joy or n’ha it; but worth it then you.V Are the humble servant; but reggi the house: you rebuke to early, while impatient stroll, gl’ignavi sleeping again. And as you move on the other hand,the swallow is still in the nest, and when it begins its song, already ode to your home shriek. And the dawn sky lightens her, but before the sprinkles and imperlina, as you your dear little house. VI Are the humble servant, but kingdoms of the humble house clean. Minacci, reproaches; teaching which is beautiful, if pure, life. Signboards, with the acrid your care gnawing stone and clay, which always, to be pure, it wears out the soul happy. Signboards, you sacred to a stake not late not nice, that most of what you worlds, you worn you! 15. The voice There’s a voice in my life, that I feel the point that dies; tired voice, voice lost, with trembling heartbeat: voice panting from its haste, that the poor chest s’afferra to say so many things and so many , but has a mouth full of earth: many many things I want to my knowledge, memories, yes … yes … but many many words that I do not feel a breath … Johnnie … When I was much needed bread and compassion, I ate only in the dream,waking up at first bite; one night, on the parapet of the Rhine, covered in snow, and only straight (passed quickly water grumbling, You drink?); straight and only with a great weeping to have to end like this, I felt suddenly daccanto that breath voice … Johnnie …Oh! the earth, as it is bad! the earth, that bitter mouthfuls! But he wanted to tell me, I understand: – No … no … Of ‘devotions! The were saying to me slowly, always with the lower voice: your hand in my hand: ridille! it’ll pass. Do not cry cry cry (again!) who suffered so much! your bread, please your angelthat you take it … Johnnie … – One night with long hours (in the jail), that suddenly I said – You’d have a lot of pain, you, if not t’avessero killed, now, O Father! – That my thinking, from prison, with a groan,he saw the father in the cemetery, the pious sisters in the convent: and that men, my life, I wanted to let him there … resented the lost voice that he breathed. Johnnie … .. Oh! the earth as it is bad! leaves no talk, then! But he wanted to tell me, I understand: – Instead of ‘a respite for us! We can not in the cemetery more sleep a minute, because we feel droop into tears the girls who have been able to ! Oh! my life that I gaveto them, you want to leave it here? Here, my son?where you do not see who killed your father … Johnnie? … – How many times have you rivenuta in gloomy abandonment of the heart, tired voice, lost voice, with the tremor of the heartbeat: voice panting from its haste that the poor lips touched for say so many things and so many; but full of earth has his mouth: your mouth! with your kisses, already so heartfelt in those days! in those days blessed and fleeting that had your kisses … Johnnie! … that m’addormentavano serious bells with placid hand, and on the head blonde you loved, felt a warmth of tears! I read you in the eyes, which were full of tears, which are filled with earth, prayer of living and being good!And then, almost a command, no, almost a late, t’uscìthe word that as long as you tell me even now … Johnnie … 16. The sun and the lantern I In the middle of a peal dim rose and clapped on taciturn houses the sun, and took of every glass fire. There was a glass however, reddish a little light. And here the sun came over him, threw him into a great folgorìo of astro.And he said, the sun: – Atom fumido! I look at you, and you were. – To him the humble flame: – But this night you were not there, or God; and a weakling he saw his mom to my light, as long as you’re born. Oh!great you are, but you do not see is dead! – II And then, darting just: – He asked you! that cough! wanted you! what pain! You remembered to heart his red butterflies on the flowering broom! I was there from … I recalled the night long vigil and cards filled with black stripes! I was veiled and sad, to make him the well-unseen. – 17. The chocolate, Canto First Father put a large log of oak on the coals; glasses avvinò;scattered the goccino advanced; mixes and floor plan, why not croccolasse, wine. But, taking the air, he mingled going. And each had his glass in his hand,full, Save the boys; them, the glass mother, everyone could feel a finger. They made ​​the dumb vegliatori the wise, praising then, speaking of vizzati good; but then went to the dow, then the vintage sad and troubled.And the women resumed their spin, with the Rock stuck in thoughts stray: pulling prillavano accoccavano sfacendo the groups or to or with his teeth. As the damp hut when the lean heifers eat, and gradually, blowing in the low crib empty, raise the nose, and from the rack pulled out a mouthful of grass, grass lupina co ‘its red flowers, indafarito in May, but in the winter, of dry straw and tender aftermath; so the sheaf, every moment, new tiglia was driven in the time. I said, “Burn the hut to the people!”And the vegliatori, glass in hand, all eyes turned to the window, as if to see the shine blaze, listening to the pounding in focus, ton ton ton, sleepy in the night.There was another night in the splendor of that distant constellations, and there was another bell sound, if not of the bell of the nine, that from Barga repeats the peasant: – Go to sleep, making you bono! bono! bono!- Not capparone burned to the forests, full of bitter leaves from tramontano; no destination vincigli chestnut, made ​​in August for serbarli the winter; not metato soletto annoyed when a fire sweet sweet sponge wood: above the reed warblers chestnutscricchiano, and the red fire burns in the dark. In the dark the river sent a gurgle, as there was in s’uno succhiar water. Everything was peace in every pilesornacchiava his shrunken dormouse. On top of the hill a metatello black smoke just in the middle of the Grand’Orsa. What was burning? … The oak, very experienced, was undermined by many deeds, and was quick and lay dead. But the dry rind, water and sun flourished mosses; and another life swarmed into the wood that intarmoliva: a people infinite well knew that the law and order, v’impresse the furrows of the city well done. And those who made ​​new homes to the new, and who for the time rimettea stuff, and those bred in the sweet children, and who wore her dead loved ones out. When they heard the greedy saw one day gnaw hoarse all around the trunk; and dry shot boomed in the deck fell from a heaving howl of a man. And the trunk hard time spitting out the zeppola steel with a sprillo, or the pigliava, and felt then die wood frangolo, and stioccare the peared, or by great strength torn, now severed from the smooth accepts:glossy agree that raising two hands splitting the logs and it Now made ​​the schiampe. The schiampe some stacked; other then brought them to the shed dull. Of the people was an infinite people remained in one of the logs. He accepts many houses destroyed, was at once the deck many of his tribe schicciate. But sorvissuti not sapean already nothing: because their turning the thousand years a year, who dodged the ax, who field from the deck, the ‘August felt that, after a while’ stitching, Time, uggito, tip in the job, and leaves. Nobody now knew that the world was their joint to all the great oak tree under a blue sky. He knew everyone there was altr’aria that that odor of mucido, another sound that serious gracilar hens and the thin screeching bats : bats that pendeano to conesby the cantons, in the day, when the sun FACEA the wires between his heddles of a canvas that ordiva an old spider. So he spent their lives cautiousnell’odoroso tarmolo of chocolate: and those who did new homes to the new, and who for the time rimettea stuff, and those bred in the sweet children, and who wore her dead loved ones out. And they saw the fire now and the end of the vegliatori: every man told her.It said Biondo , domator iron, which the green Corsonna loves, and goes down to the woods singing the drying rack, and he beats not seen the hammer:”They want to say ch’hanno all rows, those with self-door Cooper, then ch ‘ is taken to deed forward the harvest: the rugged saracco, the greedy gimlet, and tongs that guessed, and rugnare of rough rasp and slip planer. Ché have workshop: to go around like black magnano, when passing with that pealing above miccetto; ie tanbark, or wet umbrella maker, voice of the winter, which bites the heart to those who did not make remittances in time. Neither leo leo go, like them. they have taken the legs and Stradano, life, like us, strinta from grembial leather “. It said the Mouse, bearer in the neck, first, that out of the Black; yes, but this brings little more, and grumbles incaschito: – small load is that scenta the woods -: “They want to say ch’han tiglia the soda more than that of the morning nimo other ports in the upstream Cavestro and pack-saddle. And they have the ‘art, because around the weight now turn back to front now or by the parties, to get into below. If you can, come, telano; when they can not, they go for help; and on and on, for a carraiuola: like a black line of forklifts Solitaire charcoal, on the Alpe, which in that silence sowing the tinkle de ‘his rattles. Some here being runs, as also us, to reason with others going down, and the coolness of the sciurino “. It said the Menno, vangatore thoroughly, to whom the land, nell’aprir April, broken and tamed the foot loop and rifiata: and ‘the sogguarda curved on the processional: “I have heard ch’hanno its farms , like us. Under the city well done coltan a field point: that nice nice do the burglary, and here you pull in, there rises the earth, and turns with shovels or valets and cestinelle. The tie, sow. Born herb. And here then go to clean it, raised the chaff, the scerbano vecciuli, and scentano the sciàmina, poor, and weeds, which Rie bad, and paternoster, which is worst of all.In time you saw, alloy, ammeta, shakes, fan, spula.Here it is beautiful in the beautiful soppiano by the two enjoy the grain. ” And said Bosco, good pastor of the mountain, which was to hotel: from Pratuscello heleads the pack at Pieve, those guamacci: for they say there guamacci: is the third hay : “I have heard ch’hanno his beasts: which, sheep, and what, precisely beasts, ie fruit, or even from the rump. But these tiny and green, and those with a soft wool like spit:Grazing in a hundred Cuccolo flower. And the pastor has two rods, it, not one: two, with nodetti, like reeds;and molge with them: the vellìca, and they give the milk or closed in, or out, for prata: like us, you molge outdoors, in the statin, the long evenings: when on the Alpe there with us the moon alone, passing, and shines on buckets, and the hill makes a Odorín who grieve “. It said the Quarra, a leader, one that veryturned, bringing the saints and kings on the head,beyond the mountains and the resounding sea: now hath been still, and bell to bell: “I read in a book, ch’hanno peasants like us; but not as mezzaiuoli timid sol del Santo fisherman, and that, in October, when one Scasato looking farm, he says the finch: – There’s, there’s, there’s, Francesco my! – Those not, are black.To their land was a distant warrior people, the large group crossed the river on the bridge. They made ​​a bridge: one CHIAPPO the other leg, and so flickered above the water a long table. Was taken provided the city, took the children, who now are slaves and do chores, and the winner bell to bell. ” And here the China, the mother of eight children already sbozzolati, accoccò the wire to melt, put the time on legoro, the tles rubbed from dry mouth, and said: “I have seen, as they do to their children mothers, that the nurses.Children have almost wrapped in a bozzolino. He knows that his mother is in there closed the lor begetto, which is cicchin cicchino, and sleeps, and it’s cold and it’s hot. They leave at any other chores, and they shall no more that they bring their furigello now and now the bitter shade, in the neck, like us; which is to be seen as gradually they keep it clean, as they do Dolco with spit, and finally with the mouth open the shell, as if to say, bands; and the little son n’esce, that goes without saying, but gronchio gronchio. ” Thus speaking, they bevean l ‘ sprightly wine of the year.And a thousand mothers fleeing correan pei mosses rind arsita, with the children, and there was round about the fire; and the fire sipping a short crackling, or crackling that came to our hearing, more than an Ermin peaks Apennines and the Apuan Alps sharp, sat in a circle, with the aerial caves tingle from somber howl of the wind,

may hear the gnashing of a small fire
ch’arde over there over there maybe a village
with its forests; a point, a red dot
or yes or no. Nor only beheld the people
there, who was dying, the monsters by the iron
voice and giantess spinners:
the monsters that reggean concave lakes
of hot blood, while her companions
with eternal motion, including a whistling of clouds,
a gloomy mordean the clouds of heaven.
But he did not see the people dying
gods sitting around his death,
made ​​of long darkness: he saw,
perhaps atop the immense shadow of nowhere,
up, up, up, whence the rumbling thunder
of their voice, in occhiute fronts,
from aurora lit night,
lightnings and the stars twinkle.
And Zi Meo spoke. He said: “Ants!
The other year sowed grass lupina.
Came the Rain: no one was born a thread.
They were the only ones: the field seemed hard.
One day v’andai, I saw on the side
of a hill high mucchiarello of beans.
I looked for everything. However recently there was
a mucchiarello. They were the seeds, the seeds
of grass lupina. rumato they had little?
Not a grain, which is a grain, was left!
thereof they had done, the ants, appietto!
And well yes that v’avevo Anco past
the harrow to many teeth, and on the straight edge,
for all the good pianeggiar sluts,
I facev’ir of here and there, as one
does, in passing, in the midst of all ‘ Ocean “. 17. The chocolate, Canto According And the log burned, and was drunk the wine lively, everything. I greeted the vigil gloomy humming, and went not only: it accompanied me Zi Meo salcigno. It was November.Everyone was already asleep, above the new guise of corn. There was a light. But the sky shone in an endless riscintillamento. And the Earth was fleeing in a race for the dizzying springs road, and rolled across humped itself for the sting of eternal torment. And rolling to escape the yearly of sharp focus that the ruma in the heart, she exhaled for the space coldbreath panting his grave blue. So, in the thick of the race breath she saw the irises of the stars splashing, and the quarry shadow of the Cosmos she saw shivering from squamme green dragons, and junctions by whips red of charioteers, and lightning by the arrows de ‘Sagittarians, and sweep from the buds of the crowns, and flashes from the strings of gold lire;and the eyes of the lions vigilant and sleepy eyes dell’orse. We exchanged shaves the knees under the stars. At each step we take thirty miles the land was passed, with the hard mountains and the tides of sound. And with him we led back to the Sun, and rotate around the Sun it beheld the other prisons, like her, in the sky, of that flame, that with it drives them.As the sphinxes, bleak atropi bony, the acres mosquitoes and moths slender, and some dusting of gnats, revolve around a lighted lantern: a lantern swinging pendula in the hand of a child: he lost a coin in an immense wilderness, the vain search for the way that he goes back and now sobbing in the dark: and no one hears and sees him, which is a shadow, but sees and svede a light walking, neither seems to go, and always go with him , severe buzzing around him, the sphinxes: a far away are all the sky other lights that are, shadows that go, the better to see you get up in vain to the solitary Nebulae the ardor of Mira and folgorio Vega. So I thought ; and I found myselfmore, no high marble Pietrapana, above a grain of dust wing of the moth that buzzed by the light: the wing at that point was in shadow; the moth with harsh mountains and with sound risciacquar seas thousand miles that point was passed. And met with his off the road in a broken world, and burned in the street, as a brilliant cloud of fire, the dust of his long passage. But no one knows where he came from, and As distant shores already beat the wagon that no longer the charioteer now sparkles broke through the streets of the sun. Neither knows what carreggiasse around to an unknown star of life, then perhaps of him singing onthe wayfarers to the quiet street; when bumped, forviò, broke, ran into smoke and flames to the ethereal ravines, falling against our sun, pouring its treasure oltresolare: stars; that turned on and off in an instant, streaming down the sky of a thought of light.There, where the worlds appear with slow steps, as agreed immense flock, tend the flowers ether slowly,of blessed eternity serene; is full of collapses, and in the streets, beaten by stars on the run, as the red cloudsmokes dense dust of the sky; and a scrum incessant burning through the smoke of the ruins, as if Titansgaseous, the corners of the Cosmos, one another burning with ferir, space fendessero with great stars uprooted. But that time will be peace, and the worlds,made ​​denser by the fall of the Worlds, stringan veins and suck in around itself and Serrin every atom of life: when will be between world and the world Emptycold dark tacit perennial; and Everything will merge into Nothing, such as bronze in the hollow of the form; and death shall be no more. But the wind chill that I hear hissing remove the dried leaves, no longer perhaps, when you wring the last leaf? And in the silence everything will rest from its dead; and what is death. I covered the placid universe and the brief fire that v’ardea one hand. Time will (but it is! then ch’il fast immovably river of life is the source, always, and in the mouth), time which persuaded by two fingersslight, I will close the pupil: But neither is the vision over. Oh! the blind man that I am, in his quiet soul, you see, since he knows that around him there is some open eye that shines! So, when I, in our short day, I look, and then, almost in what look a veil was a shadow, with slow eye back at a flick of a wing, a flicker of stem: qundo to gaze back even once what ch’arde in the heart, that shines in the sky; we has run the good humanity listening the thin shriek, the call immediately, the question of humanity buried: and answers: – I live, yes, we live. – Time will you, Earth, struck by the impact of a vagabond mole, blazing like a meteor red; and in you disappears, in you changed in the Sun, death with life, such as burns and disappearspaper written in his own words . But maybe then it wave in the sea of nectar the blue water, and the lifeof the verzicherà appennin moon. The old tomb will be revived, flowered lily large, serene and most of uswill see the light the first Selenita. Then, the placid night, when the Breast dell’iridi and Lake high and wild dreams trembles under the Sol land; perhaps err, quell’eremitaggio in the Cosmos, some in search of the mystery; and admire the spectrum of a ray trace of ignita ‘uman thought. Or will it be time, beyond that, from the depths of the infinite abyss, where no one ever saw footprint star; one atom to another atom splitinto a thousand anything, by the day, on the one handwatching Earth like an eye fixed; and come, and looks like a elianto, night and day, as the full moon, and the earth will lift the dark last cry, and under the new Sun that whale in the night no more night, shine the Earth, like a deserted arena; and Sun leftovers against Sun, and take already half the sky, and as an immense skydescended on us, and everything in him descend … I look where Glimmers a dense swarm of worlds, how many atoms in flight are within: the Galaxy: and I think: O Sole, forever you’re not – or only! – Our Soul!sad little boy! Our good sick little boy, not t’addormi, if none is awake! happy, though close to the white bedlinger your mother that leads your little hand from the front of the chest, glad at least, if for you shines through the door by hand, and you feel the breath of the same mother your stitching; the breath or sigh;also the sigh; or at least one that you hear in choreshouse, or at least to the streets to ride; or at least see a light is kindled by far, and hear the sound of bells that slowly ascends and that hangs from the sky; at least one lumen, and the whine of a dog: a dim light, a faint whine: a little light … Sirio: eye of the dog who watches over the limit yourself to God! But if at the end of time comes the silence? if everything in silence comes? the star of the dew and the star of absinthe?Atair, Algol? if, after the storm of the Universe, and slowly falls Suns Snow cancels Eternity? that will lay without ever more flights nor ever shocks nor ever sparks, still forever and forever alone! A crypt of dead stars, a thousand fossil worlds, where not more resound nor a secluded trickle of drops, not rivers, many millions of beings, one breath; not remain a motorcycle, the infinite constellations! A burial ground where self remote sleep the great All, and the large doors do not enter a dream to aleggiar in the vacuum of what was sleep! – This is death! – This, death! this sol, the grave … if already the unknown Spirit does not rain with a great thunder, with a great roars; and perhaps the rubble Anco sommuova, and fly to Vegas Aldebaran perhaps dian, the two flint, the spark new; and take in hand, and jets to their races,under a new lamp pole, other swans, other charioteers, other Grand’Orse; and throw them to clash, to fail, to sow the scattered wreckage of their sinking their ethereal sea; and throw them in impietrarsi to wear out, stop the long millennia de ‘millennianell’impietrarsi, and in a moment burned; endlessly their flight wheelie them, no, they abandon the infinitetheir fall: a perennial rimorir: to life to life, indeed: to life! I appeal to the sign of Leo dond’arde fire in that suit a star, the Pleiades, the wagons, the Crowns,indifferent to the silent disaster; the many Suns, the Suns whites, Red Suns, shining just as needle eyes, to their planets, unknown to us, but shaken by the mysterious anxiety common to you, to you, wandering comets that you know the ways of the deep sky;Nebulae or obscure, you who are the granaries of heaven , where each grain is a world beyond you, beyond the firmament, beyond the farthest last Sun; I cry along the faint whine of a little boy who can not, does not want to sleep! soul of this young girl who does not want us, we do not know die! you shut your eyes, and do not see anything, wants under the pale light of the future! die, yes; but that is still alivearound her very sleepy, his deep oblivion; Forever, directed where she lived an hour; in his house, in his sweet world: even if this land burned, destroyed this Sun, from the last debacle a new star to emerge, one, among all the cloud of dust of our old sky . So I thought, and Zi Meo watching what I watched, he muttered quietly, “Stellato fixed: it rains tomorrow morning.” He went to his sluts thought. Well he sementato the grain in the dust, the bitter; and San Martino had held for more days the rain not to discover and take away the seed. But had already lasted far been the San Martino, and ended bono water. And Zi Meo, sure to wake up tomorrow to roar d ‘ a great acquata, was glad, and went to rest, talking about Chioccetta and Merchants, above the new guise of corn, dear life which nourishes the bread. 18. The tablecloth The saying – Girl! you never leave lying,overnight, but where did you get that door, the white tablecloth, just which is finished dinner! Bada, who are the dead! the sad, the pale dead! They enter, pants dumb. Everyone is so never tired! And stop sittingaround that night white. They are there until tomorrow, with his head in both hands, with nothing to feel, under the lamp off. – It is already big the baby:the house holds, and works: does the laundry and kitchen, does all the way since then. Think of everything, but does not think to clear the mess. Let them come the dead, the good , the poor dead. Oh! the black night black, wind, water, snow, leaves ch’entrino evening, with their longing mild; that the mess all around nap up to day, looking distant eventswith his head between his two hands. From evening to morning, looking distant things, are fixed against china, bricia on some bread, and wanting to remember, drink bitter tears. Oh! do not remember the dead, the dear, dear its dead! – Bread, yes … bread is called, we agree brake it: remember? … It is the canvas, checkers: there was so much: remember ?. ..These? … These are two, as your and your, two of our bitter tears falls in remembering! – 19. The schilletta Caprona The Sonata already the Hail Mary from the church of Caprona, feels run away via the schilletta that resonates. The little comes after much; as there in the hut: a crying still, a bit ‘of crying, after much lullaby ! II A shadow goes with the tinkling of that old bell; and the shadow passes along the river, turning the small castle, stops a little at each threshold, as even want that first you do not know who he was, that desire; who was Nimo, the old Nimo. III was when there was not the source, neither the church nor the undertaker. His mule fell into the mountain, left him only bronzino, who had astonished the ditches and pools with his hand , when he went in with the skins on, in Saltillo, the Holy Lake. IV At the sound of this that night, in the building abetina rang in the silence broken by crocchiar some pina, which on the abyss without a voice began its rocking bland; everyone makes the sign of the cross that you pericolando. V O old, or our old good, or there are two bells, but that your little one sound in your castle remains. O Nimo, or our old Nimo! or there is a nice double and grave;but thou for us you were the first to tell us Ave! Ave!Ave! VI And we love it, your bronzed, that you send us, when darkening: send him to a little child: I saw him in a bit ‘of the moon. In a pale ray I saw him: it is a boy ch’hai, there, with you: a garzonetto to guide you, because maybe you’re blind. VII Send it to us on the sericcia, which close the doors: has bare feet, but scalpiccia over many dead leaves, does not speak, but going fast sgrolla some dry branch; to make us hear your schilletta before we fall asleep. 20. The first singer I The first to sing of love who is? You do not see a budding flower, a tree has not yet moved; the calta alone and titimalo grows green on the water of the ditch and you already singing, or saltimpalo ,sicceccè sicceccè … … II A branch there, with two branches, for you! Brulli are apples and cherries;perhaps the almond has imbottonato: you in the vineyard upon a pole, you on palancato of a lawn ,love songs, or saltimpalo, sicceccè sicceccè … … IIIYou hurry to make your nest … why? For a lawn turns your cry, leading to a lawn and burls pappi: no risk, therefore, that the decline of winter is vanghi and dig!Yet cry, or saltimpalo, sicceccè … sicceccè … IV You hurry, you’re wise, you know why! Come May, is nowthe largest frullana that cuts … Frulla or sickle! Strong on the wings, the nest of moss and straw, blending new stonechats … sicceccè … sicceccè …



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