To Giosue Carducci

O rich and splendid soul that overflowest
With light and fire caught from thy native skies ! —
Whose latent storm is lurid in thine eyes
When with august and bended brows thou throwest

Thy Jove-like bolt upon the world below.
Woe, woe the wretch — that ever he was born !
Whom once the fierce sirocco of thy scorn
Encircles, deadly, withering, — Ah woe !

But thrice-blest She, whom with one golden word
Thou settest in the firmament of heaven,
A happy, deathless star ; — a wonder given
To awe-eyed mortals while thy voice is heard.

And she — ah me ! — her name is — ITALY !
Most glorious and most woful of all names !
Whose sweet sound the whole world's vast heart inflames
So chanted by her last great son — by thee.