Rain in the pine forest – Gabriele D’Annunzio

Silence. On the edge
of the forest no sound
of words pronounced
do I hear; but the sound
of newer words
that speak in drops and foliage
from afar.
Listen. Rain
falls from sparse clouds.
Rain on the tamerisks
all brine and chars,
rain on the pines
all scales and spines,
rain on the myrtaceae
divine,
on the genista fulgent
of flowers collected
on the juniper covered
with berries fragrant,
rain on our faces
ligneous,
rain on our hands
bare,
on our garments
light,
on our thoughts bright
that our souls share
pure,
on the lovely tale
that yesterday
misled you, that today misleads me,
oh Hermione.

Do you hear? The rain falling
on the solitary
vegetation
with a crackle that goes on
and varies in the air
with the fronds
more sparse, less sparse.
Listen. Responds
to the tears a chorus
of cicadas
whose austral sobs,
like the ashen skies,
instill no fear.
And the pine
has a sound, and the myrtaceae
another sound, and the juniper
another still, different
instruments
in the hands of many.
And immersed
are we in the spirit
of the wood,
living arboreal lives;
and your delighted features
are wet from the shower
like a flower,
and your tresses
are as scented
as dazzling genista
oh terrestrial creature
whose name is
Hermione.

Heed, heed. The harmony
of the aerial cicadas is
little by little
more subtle
beneath the tears
that spread;
but a song mingles instead
more strident
and there it rises,
from the distant humid shadows.
More subtle and more faint
it fades away, dies.
One note alone
vibrates still, and dies,
rises, vibrates, dies.
Sounds of the sea no more.
On the fronds I hear
the pour
of silver rain
that clears,
the pour that varies
with the fronds,
more sparse, less sparse.
Listen.
The child of the air
is mute; but the child
of the distant bog,
the frog,
sings in the deepest shadows,
who knows where, who knows where!
And rain falls on your lashes,
Hermione.

Rain falls on your dark lashes
and you seem to weep
but with joy; not white
but almost verdant
from the bark you surface.
And all of life in us is fresh
fragrant,
our hearts in our breast like peaches
intact,
between our lids our eyes
like springs among the grasses,
our teeth in their beds
like unripe almonds.
And we move from bush to bush,
now together now apart
(and the verdant feral vigour
envelops our ankles
binds our knees)
who knows where, who knows where!
And rain on our faces
ligneous,
rain on our hands
bare,
on our garments
light,
on our thoughts bright
that the soul shares
pure,
on the lovely tale
that yesterday
misled you, that today misleads me,
oh Hermione.