On The Portrait Of A Beautiful Woman, Carved On Her Monument.

by Giacomo Leopardi

　　

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Such wast thou: now in earth below,Dust and a skeleton thou art.Above thy bones and clay,Here vainly placed by loving hands,Sole guardian of memory and woe,The image of departed beauty stands.Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gazeTo watch the flight of the departing days.That gentle look, that, wheresoe'er it fell,As now it seems to fall,Held fast the gazer with its magic spell;That lip, from which as from some copious urn,Redundant pleasure seems to overflow;That neck, on which love once so fondly hung;That loving hand, whose tender pressure stillThe hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill;That bosom, whose transparent lovelinessThe color from the gazer's cheek would steal;All these have been; and now remains aloneA wretched heap of bones and clay,Concealed from sight by this benignant stone.To this hath Fate reducedThe form, that, when with life it beamed,To us heaven's liveliest image seemed.O Nature's endless mystery!To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source,And feelings not to be described,Beauty rules all, and seems,Like some mysterious splendor from on highForth-darted to illuminateThis dreary wilderness;Of superhuman fate,Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds,A token, and a hope secureTo give our mortal state;To-morrow, for some trivial cause,Loathsome to sight, abominable, baseBecomes, what but a little time beforeWore such an angel face;And from our minds, in the same breath,The grand conception it inspired,Swift vanishes and leaves no trace.What infinite desires,What visions grand and high,In our exalted thought,With magic power creates, true harmony!O'er a delicious and mysterious sea,The exulting spirit glides,As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean's tides:But oh, the mischief that is wrought,If but one accent out of tuneAssaults the ear! Alas, how soonOur paradise is turned to naught!O human nature, why is this?If frail and vile throughout,If shadow, dust thou art, say, whyHast thou such fancies, aspirations high?And yet, if framed for nobler ends,Alas, why are we doomedTo see our highest motives, truest thoughts,By such base causes kindled, and consumed?

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