Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dall’antico dolor. Profonda notte
Nella confusa mente
II pensier grave oscura;
Alia speme, al desio, l’arido spirto
Lena mancar si sente:
Cosi d’affanno e di temenza e sciolto, E l’eta vote e lente
Senza tedio consuma.
Vivemmo: e qual di paurosa larva,
E di sudato sogno,
A lattante fanciullo erra nell’alma
Confusa ricordanza:
Tal memoria n’avanza
Del viver nostro: ma da tema e lunge
II rimembrar. Che fummo?
Che fu quel punto acerbo
Che di vita ebbe nome?
Cosa arcana e stupenda
Oggi è la vita al pensier nostro, e tale
Qual de’ vivi al pensiero
L'ignota morte appar. Come da morte
Vivendo rifuggia, cosi rifugge
Dalla fiamma vitale
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no ma sicura,
Però ch’esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega a’ morti il fato.

Giacomo Leopardi

Alone in all the world eternal,
the end of each created thing,
Death,
our naked being rests on You,
not happy, no, but safe
from the ancient sorrow. In our baffled mind
deep night shades over heavy thought.
Our arid spirit feels no longing
now, for hope nor for desire,
and so from care and terror free
unwearied, it devours
slow and hollow centuries.
Once we lived,
and as a child confusedly remembers
(child sucking sweetly at the breast)
nightmare and sweatsoaked dream,
such is the memory that stays for us
of Life; and yet that memory is far from fear.
What were we?
What was that cruel point
that held the name of Life?
Secret and awesome
is Life now to our thinking,
as to the thinking of the living
seems unknown Death. As it recoiled in living
from Death, so from the flame of Life recoils
our naked being,
not happy, no, but safe.
For happiness
Fate will not grant to mortals or to dead.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 8 Number 10, on page 54
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