2006-04-18 10:48:56 来自: 其内问
(a poem to her first love: Count Collaltino di Collalto, who went to Paris and never returned…)
I have become so weary of my waiting,
Defeated by the grieving and desire
Caused by the little faith and short remembrance
Of him for whose return I mourn in vain,
That I call her who makes the world turn pale
And with her scythe fulfills the final sentence,
Imploring her to bring me sweet relief
And free me from the sorrow of my heart.
She, though, deafens herself to my entreaties,
Repulsing all my weak and foolish thoughts,
Just as he shuts his ears against returning.
So, weeping till my eyelids overflow,
I pour my piteous tears into this sea,
While he lives happily among his hills.
