Non son quell'io che già d'amiche cene

I am not he who amid wine cups flowing
Rouses to joy the festive board of friends:
Heavy with bitter weariness is going
The time that to my mind no banquet sends.

Anger alone is that fierce life bestowing
Over whose board my heart all ravenous bends.
O fair green years when brightest hopes were growing
That now lie withered as when summer ends!

Even the charm of sweet imagination
No more its soul-beguiling power retains,
But in its place stands life, mute, dread, appalling,
And over all a shade whose intonation
As if of grief that it alone remains
To some still shore afar is ever calling.