La pioggia nel pineto [English translation]

Hush1. On the threshold

of the wood, I cannot hear

the human words

you say, but I hearken

newer words uttered by

droplets and leaves

in the distance.

Listen. It rains

from the dispersed clouds.

It rains on the brackish

and adust tamarisks

it rains on the flaky

and spiculate pine trees

it rains on the divine

myrtles,

on the effulgent brooms

for the nyctinastic flowers,

on the junipers fraught

with odorous berries,

it rains on our sylvan

faces,

it rains on our naked

hands,

it rains on our lightweight

clothes,

on our fresh thoughts,

which the soul, renewed by

the rain, reveal

on the sweet dream

that yesterday

deceived you, yet today deceives me,

oh Hermione.

Can you hear it? The rain falls

upon the lonesome

vegetation,

making a din that spreads in the air

and varies

whether the foliage it falls on

is more or less thick.

Listen. The chant of the cicadas

responds to the rain

that falls like tears,

which scares neither the rain

carried by the Auster

nor the gray sky.

And the pine

has its own sound, and the myrtle

another one, and the juniper

another one again, and all the plants are like

different musical instruments

under an infinite number of fingers.

And we are immersed

in the spirit

of the wood,

living the same life as the trees do:

and your inebriated face

in soaked with water

like a leaf,

and your hair

smells like

radiant brooms

oh terrestrial creature

who bears the name of

Hermione.

Listen, listen. The harmonious chant

of the cicadas laying on the trees

little by little

becomes soft

as the intensity of the rain

increases;

but another, deeper

chant joins it

which rises over there,

from a distant point in the wet wood.

Fainter and weaker

It slackens, it fades away.

Only one note

Still trembles, then fades away.

It rises again, trembles, fades away.

One hears no voice of the sea.

But now hears the silvery rain

pelting down

upon all the foliage

and it cleanses

the pelting which varies

whether the foliage it falls on

is more or less thick.

Listen.

The daughter of the air

is silent, but, far away, the daughter

of the mud,

the frog,

sings in the dark shadow

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on your eyelashes,

Hermione.

It rains on your black eyelashes,

thus it seems like you are crying

yet tears of joy; it seems like you are

coming out of a bark, and your skin is not

white but almost green.

And all the life within us is fresh

and scented,

the heart in our chest is like a peach

not picked yet,

our eyes are like

water springs in the grass

the teeth in our gums

are like unripe almonds.

And we walk through the bushes,

now together, now separated

(and the wild and primitive force of the shrubs

binds our ankles

shakes our knees)

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on our sylvan

faces,

it rains on our naked

hands,

it rains on our lightweight

clothes,

on our fresh thoughts,

which the soul, renewed by

the rain, reveal

on the sweet dream

that yesterday

deceived me, yet today deceives you,

oh Hermione.

1. The poet is addressing Hermione, a woman which is walking with him in the pinewood. Hermione (Gr. Ἑρμιόνη - given name in the Greek mythology) is a pseudonym that D'Annunzio uses to address Eleonora Duse, one of the greatest actors of all time