À mon frère revenant d'Italie [English translation]

So, my dear chap, you're coming back from there,

from the land I remember,

like a dream,

from those lovely places where the orange tree

was born to compensate us

for Eve's sin.

You've seen him, this haughty ghost

who in times past had the whole world

under his rule.

Caesar fell in his purple;

in a priest's small coat

his widow expires.

You were lulled on that pure flow

where naples sets its mosaic

in the blue,

the loafers' pillow

where macaroni and music

were born.

Be it crafty, simple, or derisive

doesn't it leave in our hearts

an alien charm,

this people fond of cheerfulness

who would give glory and beauty

for an orange?

Ischia! it's there that we have eyes,

it's there that a loving bodice

fits tightly at the hips.

Over well fitting red tights

the white slippers shine

under the golden petticoat.

Poor Ischia! many people have seen

your young girls only barefoot

in the dust.

Kitting them up in Sunday best is very expensive;

but your pure sun still shines

on their extreme poverty.

In any event, it's certain

that people don't speak Latin

in the Abruzzo region,

and that will a mail-coach driver

there ever be a child of Apollo

or of any of the nine muses.

Superb roofs! cold monuments!

a golden shroud on some bones!

Here lies Venice.

There my poor heart has remained.

If it has to be brought back to me from there

May God guide it!

But what am I going to talk about here?

What would the sorry man do,

when you, dear brother,

these places where I almost died,

you're coming from travelling through them all

to entertain yourself?

Brother, don't go so far away again,

I have a great need for a little help,

whatever might happen to me.

I don't know where my path is going,

but I walk better when your hand

grips mine.