At the narrow brook, amid uncertain mists
gazes the wide-eyed ox: in the plain
far stretching to a sea that recedes ever,
go the blue waters of a river:
loom large before his eyes, in the misty
light, the willow and the alder;
wanders a flock upon the grass, now here now there,
and seems the herd of an ancient god.
Shadows with talons spread broad wings
in the air: mutely chimeras move
like clouds in the deep sky:
the sun goes down, immense, behind
huge mountains: already lengthen, black,
the larger shades of a much larger world.
The Ox. (Carducci.)
Oh pious ox, I love thee; and a gentle feeling
of vigour and of peace thou pour’st into my heart;
whether, solemn as a monument,
thou gazest at the field so free and fruitful,
or whether, bowing gladly to the yoke,
the agile work of man thou gladly aidest;
he pricks and urges thee and thou repliest
with the slow turning of thy patient eye.
From thy broad nostril damp and dark
smokes forth thy breath, and like a joyful hymn
thy lowing rises through the quiet air;
and in the austere sweetness of thy grave
and glaucous eye, ample and quiet is reflected
the green and godlike silence of the plain.
Another side of Pascoli’s mind reveals itself in his studies on Dante. The hope which is company for me, he writes, is to go down to posterity as an interpreter of Dante, as an illustrator of the great Poet’s mind and thought. He has already published a book, La Minerva Oscura, for professional Dantisti; and is about to issue a series of articles for the general public.