This is going to be long, so let’s waste no time.
Here are some of my favourite Italian poems, each with some background information about the poet and an English translation, too.
Take a moment to read these beautiful works of art. Do it slowly and let the words sink in.
Happy reading!
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Table of Contents
Best Italian Love Poems
1. Benedetto sia il giorno by Francesco Petrarca
Francesco Petrarca, also known as Petrarch, was a 14th-century poet of the early Italian Renaissance.
He’s the author of Canzoniere (“Songbook”), a collection of poems that tell a story of his inner life.
Benedetto sia il giorno (“Blessed be the day”) is one of the most romantic Italian poems included in the collection.
It’s dedicated to Laura, the woman he loved from afar. Petrarca blesses every detail of his love for her, as you can notice from the verses below.
Benedetto sia il giorno
Benedetto sia ’l giorno, e ’l mese, e l’anno,
e la stagione, e ’l tempo, e l’ora, e ’l punto,
e ’l bel paese e ’l loco ov’io fui giunto
da’ duo begli occhi che legato m’ hanno;
e benedetto il primo dolce affanno
ch’i’ ebbi ad esser con Amor congiunto,
e l’arco e le saette ond’i’ fui punto,
e le piaghe che ’nfin al cor mi vanno.
Benedette le voci tante ch’io
chiamando il nome de mia donna ho sparte,
e i sospiri, e le lagrime, e ’l desio;
e benedette sian tutte le carte
ov’io fama le acquisto, e il pensier mio,
ch’è sol di lei, sì ch’altra non v’ha parte.
English Translation (From Petrarch in English)
Blessed be the day
Blessed be the day, month, year
and season, and time and hour, and the point
and the beautiful country, and the place where I was reached,
by the two beautiful eyes that have bound me.
And blessed be the first sweet sorrow,
that I had, to be combined with love,
and bow and arrows from which I was hurt,
and the sores that ultimately go to the heart of me.
Blessed are the many voices that I,
calling the name of my woman, I scattered,
and the sighs and tears, and desire.
And blessed are all the papers where I fed the purchase,
and my thought, which is only of her, so that there is no other side.
2. Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare by Dante Alighieri
I don’t think Dante Alighieri (1265 – 1321) needs an introduction.
But in case you need one, he’s the author of Divina Commedia, the greatest literary work in the Italian language.
Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare (“So gentle and so virtuous she appears”) is one of Dante Alighieri’s most famous sonetti from La Vita Nuova, a collection dedicated to his idealised love for Beatrice Portinari.
Beatrice is depicted as almost divine. She’s the embodiment of beauty, grace, and virtue. She’s so perfect that even words fail before her presence.
Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
la donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta,
ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
e li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare.
Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
benignamente d’umiltà vestuta;
e par che sia una cosa venuta
da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.
Mostrasi sì piacente a chi la mira,
che dà per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
che ‘ntender no la può chi no la prova:
e par che de la sua labbia si mova
un spirito soave pien d’amore,
che va dicendo a l’anima: sospira.
English Translation (from Introduction to Italian Poetry by Luciano Rebay)
So gentle and so virtuous she appears
So gentle and so virtuous she appears,
My lady, when greeting other people
That every tongue tremblingly grows silent,
And eyes do not dare gaze upon her,
She passes by, hearing herself praised,
Graciously clothed with humility,
And she appears to be a creature who has come
From heaven to earth to show forth a miracle.
She shows herself so pleasing to her beholders,
That she gives through the eyes a sweetness to the heart,
Which no one can understand who does not feel it;
And it appears that from her lip moves
A tender spirit full of love,
Which says again and again to the soul: “Sigh.”
Italian Poetry About Nature And Rural Life
3. Alla sera by Ugo Foscolo
Ugo Foscolo (1778 – 1827) was a Romantic poet and writer who bridged Neoclassicism and Romanticism.
In Alla sera (“To the evening”), a poem he published in 1808, he reflects on how evening, with its stillness and silence, offers a fleeting glimpse into the disappearance of all life forms.
Foscolo doesn’t perceive the twilight as a dramatic challenge imposed by fate. Rather, he sees it as a gentle fading of life itself.
I don’t think you’d be surprised if I told you that Foscolo wrote Alla sera during a troubled period of his life.
Alla sera
Forse perché della fatal quïete
tu sei l’imago, a me sì cara vieni,
o Sera! E quando ti corteggian liete
le nubi estive e i zeffiri sereni,
e quando dal nevoso aere inquïete
tenebre e lunghe all’universo meni,
sempre scendi invocata, e le secrete
vie del mio cor soavemente tieni.
Vagar mi fai co’ miei pensieri su l’orme
che vanno al nulla eterno; e intanto fugge
questo reo tempo, e van con lui le torme
delle cure onde meco egli si strugge;
e mentre io guardo la tua pace, dorme
quello spirto guerrier ch’entro mi rugge.
English Translation (by Matilda Colarossi paralleltexts)
To the evening
Perhaps because you are of fatal stillness
the likeness I so treasure you
oh Dusk! Be there clouds of summer solstice
and gentle zephyrs that kindly woo
be there from snowy heavens restless
shadows of the dark cast upon the world ,
you are welcome always, and the mysterious
recesses of my heart you quietly capture.
You drive my vagrant thoughts on paths
that lead to eternal nothingness; and scarpers
thus this woeful time, and with it the abundance
of miseries that with me time devours;
and while I view your peacefulness, dormant is
the intrepid spirit that within me roaring stirs.
4. Meriggiare pallido e assorto by Eugenio Montale
Eugenio Montale (1896 – 1981) was a Nobel Prize-winning poet who was known for his introspective, existential poetry.
Meriggiare pallido e assorto (“To slump at noon thought-sick and pale”) is set in Liguria on a scorching, bright afternoon.
Montale describes himself lost in melancholic thoughts. He’s alone in a harsh and oppressive landscape.
He notices tiny red ants (a symbol of endless human effort), and hears the cicadas. The distant, glittering sea represents an unreachable happiness.
Walking back and forth along a wall topped with sharp glass shards, Montale realizes life is just like this—a repetitive, lonely struggle towards something we can never truly reach.
Meriggiare pallido e assorto
Meriggiare pallido e assorto
presso un rovente muro d’orto,
ascoltare tra i pruni e gli sterpi
schiocchi di merli, frusci di serpi.
Nelle crepe del suolo o su la veccia
spiar le file di rosse formiche
ch’ora si rompono ed ora s’intrecciano
a sommo di minuscole biche.
Osservare tra frondi il palpitare
lontano di scaglie di mare,
mentre si levano tremuli scricchi
di cicale dai calvi picchi.
E andando nel sole che abbaglia
sentire con triste meraviglia
com’è tutta la vita e il suo travaglio
in questo seguitare una muraglia
che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia.
English Translation (by Millicent Bell)
To slump at noon thought-sick and pale
To slump at noon thought-sick and pale
under the scorching garden wall,
to hear a snake scrape past, the blackbirds creak
in the dry thorn thicket, the brushwood brake.
Between tufts of vetch, in the cracks of the ground
to spy out the ants’ long lines of march;
now they reach the top of a crumb-sized mound,
the lines break, they stumble into a ditch.
To observe between the leaves the pulse
beneath the sea’s scaly skin,
while from the dry cliffs the cicada calls
like a knife on the grinder’s stone.
And going into the sun’s blaze
once more, to feel, with sad surprise
how all life and its battles
is in this walk alongside a wall
topped with sharp bits of glass from broken bottles.
5. La sera fiesolana by Gabriele D’Annunzio
Gabriele d'Annunzio (1863 – 1938) was a prominent Italian poet, playwright, and nationalist figure.
In La sera fiesolana (“The evening in Fiesole”), he captures the serene beauty of the Tuscan landscape by describing the peaceful hills of Fiesole at sunset.
He also mixes old stories with his own feelings to show how much he loves those quiet, beautiful moments in nature.
La sera fiesolana
Fresche le mie parole ne la sera
ti sien come il fruscìo che fan le foglie
del gelso ne la man di chi le coglie
silenzioso e ancor s’attarda a l’opra lenta
su l’alta scala che s’annera
contro il fusto che s’inargenta
con le sue rame spoglie
mentre la Luna è prossima a le soglie
cerule e par che innanzi a sé distenda un velo
ove il nostro sogno si giace
e par che la campagna già si senta
da lei sommersa nel notturno gelo
e da lei beva la sperata pace
senza vederla.
Laudata sii pel tuo viso di perla,
o Sera, e pe’ tuoi grandi umidi occhi ove si tace
l’acqua del cielo!
Dolci le mie parole ne la sera
ti sien come la pioggia che bruiva
tepida e fuggitiva,
commiato lacrimoso de la primavera,
su i gelsi e su gli olmi e su le viti
e su i pini dai novelli rosei diti
che giocano con l’aura che si perde,
e su ’l grano che non è biondo ancóra
e non è verde,
e su ’l fieno che già patì la falce
e trascolora,
e su gli olivi, su i fratelli olivi
che fan di santità pallidi i clivi
e sorridenti.
Laudata sii per le tue vesti aulenti,
o Sera, e pel cinto che ti cinge come il salce
il fien che odora!
Io ti dirò verso quali reami
d’amor ci chiami il fiume, le cui fonti
eterne a l’ombra de gli antichi rami
parlano nel mistero sacro dei monti;
e ti dirò per qual segreto
le colline su i limpidi orizzonti
s’incùrvino come labbra che un divieto
chiuda, e perché la volontà di dire
le faccia belle
oltre ogni uman desire
e nel silenzio lor sempre novelle
consolatrici, sì che pare
che ogni sera l’anima le possa amare
d’amor più forte.
Laudata sii per la tua pura morte,
o Sera, e per l’attesa che in te fa palpitare
le prime stelle!
English Translation (by Allpoetry)
The evening in Fiesole
Fresh my words in the evening
you feel like the rustling leaves make
mulberry in the hand of those who pick them
silent and still lingers at the slow work
up the high, blackening stairway
against the stem that silvers
with its copper remains
while the Moon is near the threshold
cerulean and seems to spread a veil in front of it
where our dream lies
and it seems that the campaign is already felt
submerged by her in the nocturnal frost
and drink from her the hoped-for peace
without seeing her.
Praised be you for your pearly face,
o Sera, and for your big wet eyes where it is silent
sky water!
Sweet my words in the evening
you are like the burning rain
tepid and fugitive,
spring's tearful farewell,
on the mulberries and on the elms and on the vines
and on the pines with new rosy fingers
who play with the lost aura,
and on the wheat that is not yet blond
and it's not green
and on the hay that already suffered the sickle
and transcolor,
and on the olive trees, on the olive brothers
that make the slopes pale with sanctity
and smiling.
Praised be you for your fragrant robes,
o Sera, and for the girdle that surrounds you like willow
the hay that smells!
I will tell you to which realms
of love you call us the river, whose sources
eternal and the shadow of the ancient branches
they speak in the sacred mystery of the mountains;
and I'll tell you for what secret
the hills on the clear horizons
they curve like lips that a ban
close, and because the will to say
make them beautiful
beyond all human desire
and in the silence their always news
comforters, yes it seems
that every evening the soul can love them
of stronger love.
Praised be you for your pure death
o Sera, and for the expectation that makes you palpitate
the first stars!
6. La Domenica dell’ulivo by Giovanni Pascoli
Giovanni Pascoli (1855 – 1912) was one of the greatest Italian decadent poets.
La Domenica dell’ulivo (“The Sunday of the olive tree”) is a poem where Pascoli celebrates the anticipation of Easter and uses the olive tree as a symbol of peace and hope.
La Domenica dell’ulivo
Hanno compiuto in questo dì gli uccelli
il nido (oggi è la festa dell’ulivo)
di foglie secche, radiche, fuscelli;
quel sul cipresso, questo su l’alloro,
al bosco, lungo il chioccolo d’un rivo,
nell’ombra mossa d’un tremolìo d’oro.
E covano sul musco e sul lichene
fissando muti il cielo cristallino,
con improvvisi palpiti, se viene
un ronzìo d’ape, un vol di maggiolino.
English Translation (by Patrick Barron)
The Sunday of the olive tree
Today the birds have finished
the nest (today is the festival of the olive)
of dry leaves, stalks, twigs;
that on the cypress, this on the laurel,
in the woods, along the gurgling of a streambank,
in the shade, a shimmering of gold plays.
They nest on moss and lichen
silently watching the crystalline sky
with sudden heartbeats, for the approaching
buzzing of bees, the flight of a beetle.
7. San Martino by Giosuè Carducci
Giosuè Carducci (1835 – 1907) was the first Italian to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. San Martino is one of his most notable poems.
In it, Carducci depicts a vivid autumn scene in the Italian countryside during the feast of St. Martin on November 11th.
The poem is indeed centred around the essence of rural life and the serene atmosphere of the season.
Fun fact (we need one after all this beautiful, fascinating sadness, don’t we?): In 1993, Fiorello, a famous Italian comedian, singer, radio and television presenter, released San Martino, a single based on the poem by Giosuè Carducci.
San Martino
La nebbia a gl’irti colli
Piovigginando sale,
E sotto il maestrale
Urla e biancheggia il mar;
Ma per le vie del borgo
Dal ribollir de’ tini
Va l’aspro odor de i vini
L’anime a rallegrar.
Gira su’ ceppi accesi
Lo spiedo scoppiettando:
Sta il cacciator fischiando
Su l’uscio a rimirar
Tra le rossastre nubi
Stormi d’uccelli neri,
Com’esuli pensieri,
Nel vespero migrar
English Translation (by Matilda Colarossi paralleltexts)
MARTINMAS
The mist towards steep slopes rises
As the rain comes trickling down,
And under northern breezes
Roars and whitens the sea;
But along the city streets
From fine fermenting bins
The savoury smell of wines
Permeates the soul with glee.
Spinning over logs alight
Skewers ablaze and sizzling:
The hunter pauses whistling
Beside the threshold to see
Among the reddish hazes
Flocking birds as black as night,
Indistinct as thoughts in flight,
T’wards the setting sun they flee.
Italian Poems About War
8. Soldati by Giuseppe Ungaretti
Giuseppe Ungaretti (1888 – 1970) was one of the most prominent contributors to 20th-century Italian literature.
He wrote Soldati (“Soldiers”) in 1918 while he was fighting in France during World War I. In the poem, he compares soldiers to leaves falling in autumn.
Life at the front is brief, and many of Ungaretti’s fellow soldiers are lost. They drop one by one like leaves from a tree.
Soldati
Si sta come
d’autunno
sugli alberi
le foglie.
English Translation (by Greer M. Egan)
Soldiers
We are
Autumnal
On the trees,
As the leaves.
9. Se questo è un uomo by Primo Levi
Primo Levi (1919 – 1987) was a Jewish-Italian writer, chemist, and Holocaust survivor.
Se questo è un uomo (“If this is a man”) is his memoir.
It was published in 1947, and it's about his arrest as part of the Italian anti-fascist resistance in World War II and his imprisonment in Auschwitz from February 1944 until January 1945, when the camp was liberated.
This poem is printed at the beginning of the book.
Se questo è un uomo
Voi che vivete sicuri
nelle vostre tiepide case,
voi che trovate tornando a sera
il cibo caldo e visi amici:
Considerate se questo è un uomo
che lavora nel fango
che non conosce pace
che lotta per mezzo pane
che muore per un sì o per un no.
Considerate se questa è una donna,
senza capelli e senza nome
senza più forza di ricordare
vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo
come una rana d’inverno.
Meditate che questo è stato:
vi comando queste parole.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore
stando in casa andando per via,
coricandovi, alzandovi.
Ripetetele ai vostri figli.
O vi si sfaccia la casa,
la malattia vi impedisca,
i vostri nati torcano il viso da voi.
English Translation (from If This Is a Man, London, Abacus, 1987)
If this is a man
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud
Who does not know peace
Who fights for a scrap of bread
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman,
Without hair and without name
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children,
Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.
10. Mattina by Giuseppe Ungaretti
Here's another beautiful (and short!) poem by Ungaretti: Mattina (“Morning”).
All Italian students know this poem very well, not least because it’s one of the shortest in Italian literature!
It's made up of four words written on January 26, 1917 on the Carso front during World War I.
Mattina is probably the most representative lyric of Hermeticism, of which Ungaretti was one of the leaders.
Mattina
M’illumino d’immenso
English translation (by me)
Morining
I illuminate (myself) with immensity
Modern Italian Poets
11. Ed è subito sera by Salvatore Quasimodo
Salavatore Quasimodo (1901 – 1968) was one of the greatest modern poets.
He was awarded the 1959 Nobel Prize in Literature “for his lyrical poetry, which with classical fire expresses the tragic experience of life in our own times.”
Ed è subito sera (“And suddenly it’s evening”) is super short—just three lines—but it packs a punch.
Quasimodo reflects on how life can feel brief and fragile and says we’re all like people walking alone for a moment in the sun.
And then, suddenly, it’s evening. (Death comes.)
It’s a way of saying that life passes quickly, and before we know it, it’s over.
Simple, but powerful (and pessimistic/sad?)
Ed è subito sera
Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.
English Translation (by A. S. Kline)
And suddenly it’s evening
Everyone is alone at the heart of the earth,
pierced by a ray of sunshine;
and suddenly it’s evening.
12. Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi by Cesare Pavese
Cesare Pavese (1908 – 1950) was an influential Italian poet, novelist, and translator. He was known for his melancholic and existential themes.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi (“Death will come and will have your eyes”) was one of his final works (he wrote it shortly before his suicide in 1950).
The poem expresses the heartbreak and disappointment Pavese suffered because of an American actress, Constance Dowling.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal mattino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Così li vedi ogni mattina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla.
Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.
English Translation (by Julian Peters)
When Death Comes, It Will Have Your Eyes
When death comes, it will have your eyes-
This death that is always with us,
From morning till evening, sleepless,
Deaf, like an old remorse
Or some senseless bad habit. Your eyes
Will be an empty word,
A stifled cry, a silence;
The way they appear to you each morning,
When you lean into yourself, alone,
In the mirror. Sweet hope,
That day we too shall know
That you are life and you are nothingness.
For each of us, death has a face.
When death comes, it will have your eyes.
It will be like quitting some bad habit,
Like seeing a dead face
Resurface out of the mirror,
Like listening to shut lips.
We’ll go down into the vortex in silence.
13. Promemoria by Gianni Rodari
Gianni Rodari (1920 – 1980) was a writer and journalist who contributed to the renewal of Italian children’s literature.
He became known for his short stories, nursery rhymes, and poems, many of which have become children’s classics.
Here’s one of them, Promemoria (“Reminder”).
Promemoria
Ci sono cose da fare ogni giorno:
lavarsi, studiare, giocare,
preparare la tavola,
a mezzogiorno.
Ci sono cose da far di notte:
chiudere gli occhi, dormire,
avere sogni da sognare,
orecchie per sentire.
Ci sono cose da non fare mai,
né di giorno né di notte,
né per mare né per terra:
per esempio, la guerra.
English Translation (by Matilda Colarossi paralleltexts)
Memorandum
There are things to be done every day:
bathe, study, and even play
help lay the table
at midday.
There are things to be done at night:
close your eyes and sleep
have dreams to dream
sounds to reap.
There are things never to be done:
not during the day or at night
not at sea or on the shore
one, for example, is WAR
Italian Poems By Giacomo Leopardi
14. A Silvia by Giacomo Leopardi
Giacomo Leopardi (1798 – 1837) is considered the greatest Italian poet of the 19th century. He’s known for his melancholic and philosophical poetry.
A Silvia (“To Silvia”) is probably his most famous poem and a classic example of his pessimistic outlook on life.
Leopardi wrote it in honour of, er, Silvia—a young woman whose beauty and cheerful spirit represent vitality and youth.
He remembers her simple life, full of carefree singing and big dreams for the future.
But Silvia’s sudden death changes everything, and all those promises and dreams vanish.
Nature can be cruel, accordion to Leopardi. It offers happiness only to take it away.
A Silvia
Silvia, rimembri ancora
Quel tempo della tua vita mortale,
Quando beltà splendea
Negli occhi tuoi ridenti e fuggitivi,
E tu, lieta e pensosa, il limitare
Di gioventù salivi?
Sonavan le quiete
Stanze, e le vie dintorno,
Al tuo perpetuo canto,
Allor che all’opre femminili intenta
Sedevi, assai contenta
Di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi.
Era il maggio odoroso: e tu solevi
Così menare il giorno.
Io gli studi leggiadri
Talor lasciando e le sudate carte,
Ove il tempo mio primo
E di me si spendea la miglior parte,
D’in su i veroni del paterno ostello
Porgea gli orecchi al suon della tua voce,
Ed alla man veloce
Che percorrea la faticosa tela.
Mirava il ciel sereno,
Le vie dorate e gli orti,
E quinci il mar da lungi, e quindi il monte.
Lingua mortal non dice
Quel ch’io sentiva in seno.
Che pensieri soavi,
Che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia!
Quale allor ci apparia
La vita umana e il fato!
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,
Un affetto mi preme
Acerbo e sconsolato,
E tornami a doler di mia sventura.
O natura, o natura,
Perchè non rendi poi
Quel che prometti allor? perchè di tanto
Inganni i figli tuoi?
Tu pria che l’erbe inaridisse il verno,
Da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta,
Perivi, o tenerella. E non vedevi
Il fior degli anni tuoi;
Non ti molceva il core
La dolce lode or delle negre chiome,
Or degli sguardi innamorati e schivi;
Nè teco le compagne ai dì festivi
Ragionavan d’amore
Anche peria fra poco
La speranza mia dolce: agli anni miei
Anche negaro i fati
La giovanezza. Ahi come,
Come passata sei,
Cara compagna dell’età mia nova,
Mia lacrimata speme!
Questo è quel mondo? questi
I diletti, l’amor, l’opre, gli eventi
Onde cotanto ragionammo insieme?
Questa la sorte dell’umane genti?
All’apparir del vero
Tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano
La fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda
Mostravi di lontano.
English Translation (by poetryintranslation.com)
To Silvia
Silvia, do you remember
those moments, in your mortal life,
when beauty still shone
in your sidelong, laughing eyes,
and you, light and thoughtful,
leapt beyond girlhood’s limits?
The quiet rooms and the streets
around you, sounded
to your endless singing,
when you sat, happily content,
intent on that woman’s work,
the vague future, arriving alive in your mind.
It was the scented May, and that’s how
you spent your day.
I would leave my intoxicating studies,
and the turned-down pages,
where my young life,
the best of me, was left,
and from the balcony of my father’s house
strain to catch the sound of your voice,
and your hand, quick,
running over the loom.
I’d look at the serene sky,
the gold lit gardens and paths:
this side the mountains, that side the far-off sea.
And human tongue cannot say
what I felt then.
What sweet thoughts,
what hope, what hearts, O my Silvia!
How all human life and fate
appeared to us then!
When I recall that hope
such feelings pain me,
harsh, disconsolate,
I brood on my own destiny.
Oh Nature, Nature
why do you not give now
what you promised then? Why
do you so deceive your children?
Attacked, and conquered, by secret disease,
you died, my tenderest one, and did not see
your years flower, or feel your heart moved,
by sweet praise of your black hair
your shy, loving looks.
No friends talked with you,
on holidays, about love.
My sweet hopes died also
little by little: to me too
Fate has denied those years.
Oh, how you’ve passed me by,
dear friend of my new life,
my saddened hope!
Is this the world, the dreams,
the loves, events, delights,
we spoke about so much together?
Is this our human life?
At the advance of Truth
you fell, unhappy one,
and from the distance,
with your hand you pointed
towards death’s coldness and the silent grave.
15. L’infinito by Giacomo Leopardi
L’infinito (“Infinity”) is one of the most famous Italian poems. Inspired by a hill in his hometown of Recanati, Leopardi contemplates the concept of infinity.
The hedge he describes stands for the limits of what he can see or know, but his imagination goes beyond it into something endless.
The final line, “e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare” (“and shipwreck seems sweet to me in this sea.”), is one of the most iconic verses in Italian poetry.
L’infinito
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quiete
io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
il cor non si spaura.
E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s’annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
English Translation (by A. S. Kline)
Infinity
It was always dear to me, this solitary hill,
and this hedgerow here, that closes off my view,
from so much of the ultimate horizon.
But sitting here, and watching here,
in thought, I create interminable spaces,
greater than human silences, and deepest
quiet, where the heart barely fails to terrify.
When I hear the wind, blowing among these leaves,
I go on to compare that infinite silence
with this voice, and I remember the eternal
and the dead seasons, and the living present,
and its sound, so that in this immensity
my thoughts are drowned, and shipwreck
seems sweet to me in this sea.
16. Il sabato del villaggio by Giacomo Leopardi
Do you prefer the anticipation before an exciting event (Saturdays) or the event itself (Sundays)?
In Il sabato del villaggio (“Saturday in the village”), one of Leopardi’s most famous works, the poet is saying that the hope and excitement we feel before something happens can be even better than the event itself.
He also reminds us that life is like that.
When you’re young, you dream about the future, but growing up often brings challenges and disappointments.
So, enjoy the hope and excitement while you can because that’s often the best part (according to Leopardi)!
Il sabato del villaggio
La donzelletta vien dalla campagna,
In sul calar del sole,
Col suo fascio dell’erba; e reca in mano
Un mazzolin di rose e di viole,
Onde, siccome suole,
Ornare ella si appresta
Dimani, al dì di festa, il petto e il crine.
Siede con le vicine
Su la scala a filar la vecchierella,
Incontro là dove si perde il giorno;
E novellando vien del suo buon tempo,
Quando ai dì della festa ella si ornava,
Ed ancor sana e snella
Solea danzar la sera intra di quei
Ch’ebbe compagni dell’età più bella.
Già tutta l’aria imbruna,
Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan l’ombre
Giù da’ colli e da’ tetti,
Al biancheggiar della recente luna.
Or la squilla dà segno
Della festa che viene;
Ed a quel suon diresti
Che il cor si riconforta.
I fanciulli gridando
Su la piazzuola in frotta,
E qua e là saltando,
Fanno un lieto romore:
E intanto riede alla sua parca mensa,
Fischiando, il zappatore,
E seco pensa al dì del suo riposo.
Poi quando intorno è spenta ogni altra face,
E tutto l’altro tace,
Odi il martel picchiare, odi la sega
Del legnaiuol, che veglia
Nella chiusa bottega alla lucerna,
E s’affretta, e s’adopra
Di fornir l’opra anzi il chiarir dell’alba.
Questo di sette è il più gradito giorno,
Pien di speme e di gioia:
Diman tristezza e noia
Recheran l’ore, ed al travaglio usato
Ciascuno in suo pensier farà ritorno.
Garzoncello scherzoso,
Cotesta età fiorita
E’ come un giorno d’allegrezza pieno,
Giorno chiaro, sereno,
Che precorre alla festa di tua vita.
Godi, fanciullo mio; stato soave,
Stagion lieta è cotesta.
Altro dirti non vo’; ma la tua festa
Ch’anco tardi a venir non ti sia grave.
English Translation (by poetryintranslation.com)
Saturday Night In The Village
The girl comes from the fields,
at sunset,
carrying her sheaf of grass: in her fingers
a bunch of violets and roses:
she’s ready, as before,
to wreathe her hair and bodice,
for tomorrow’s holiday.
The old woman sits spinning,
facing the dying sunlight,
on the stairway, with her neighbours,
telling the tale of her own young days,
when she dressed for the festival,
and still slim and lovely,
danced all evening, with those young
boys, companions of her fairer season.
Already the whole sky darkens,
the air turns deep blue: already
shadows of hills and roofs return,
on the young moon’s pale rising.
Now the bells are witness
to the coming holiday:
you would say the heart
might take comfort from the sound.
A gang of little boys
shout in the tiny square,
leaping here and there,
making a happy din:
and the farmhand, whistling,
returns for his simple meal,
dreams of his day of rest.
When the other lights are quenched, all round,
and everything else is silent,
I hear the hammer ringing, I hear
the carpenter sawing: he’s still awake
in the lamplight, in his shut workshop,
hurrying and straining,
to finish his task before dawn.
This is the best of the seven days,
full of hope and joy:
tomorrow the hours will bring
anxiety and sadness, and make each
turn, in thought, to their accustomed toil.
Lively boy,
your life’s sweet flowering
is like this day of gladness,
a clear day, unclouded,
that heralds life’s festival.
Enjoy the sweet hour, my child,
this pleasant, delightful season.
I’ll say nothing, more: let it not grieve you
if your holiday, like mine, is slow to arrive.
17. La quite dopo la tempesta by Giacomo Leopardi
La quiete dopo la tempesta (“The quiet after the storm”) is one of several Italian poems about happiness. Kind of.
Leopardi composed it in Recanati in 1829 and concludes that the rare moments of pleasure granted to humanity are only the result of the cessation of pain, fear, and sorrow.
True quiet, according to Leopardi, can only be achieved through death, the only event capable of healing all suffering.
Leopardi, as you may have noticed by now, was not the most optimistic man of his time.
La quiete dopo la tempesta
Passata è la tempesta:
Odo augelli far festa, e la gallina,
Tornata in su la via,
Che ripete il suo verso. Ecco il sereno
Rompe là da ponente, alla montagna;
Sgombrasi la campagna,
E chiaro nella valle il fiume appare.
Ogni cor si rallegra, in ogni lato
Risorge il romorio
Torna il lavoro usato.
L’artigiano a mirar l’umido cielo,
Con l’opra in man, cantando,
Fassi in su l’uscio; a prova
Vien fuor la femminetta a còr dell’acqua
Della novella piova;
E l’erbaiuol rinnova
Di sentiero in sentiero
Il grido giornaliero.
Ecco il Sol che ritorna, ecco sorride
Per li poggi e le ville. Apre i balconi,
Apre terrazzi e logge la famiglia:
E, dalla via corrente, odi lontano
Tintinnio di sonagli; il carro stride
Del passegger che il suo cammin ripiglia.
Si rallegra ogni core.
Sì dolce, sì gradita
Quand’è, com’or, la vita?
Quando con tanto amore
L’uomo a’ suoi studi intende?
O torna all’opre? o cosa nova imprende?
Quando de’ mali suoi men si ricorda?
Piacer figlio d’affanno;
Gioia vana, ch’è frutto
Del passato timore, onde si scosse
E paventò la morte
Chi la vita abborria;
Onde in lungo tormento,
Fredde, tacite, smorte,
Sudàr le genti e palpitàr, vedendo
Mossi alle nostre offese
Folgori, nembi e vento.
O natura cortese,
Son questi i doni tuoi,
Questi i diletti sono
Che tu porgi ai mortali. Uscir di pena
E’ diletto fra noi.
Pene tu spargi a larga mano; il duolo
Spontaneo sorge: e di piacer, quel tanto
Che per mostro e miracolo talvolta
Nasce d’affanno, è gran guadagno. Umana
Prole cara agli eterni! assai felice
Se respirar ti lice
D’alcun dolor: beata
Se te d’ogni dolor morte risana.
English Translation (by tclt.org.uk)
The quiet after the storm
The storm is over now.
I hear the birds sing out in joy. The hen,
Back now upon the path, begins her cackling
Once again. Look how the clear sky
Opens from the west above the mountain-tops.
The countryside begins to clear,
And down there in the valley, the river gleams.
All hearts are glad again, and far and wide,
The noise of work starts up
As business resumes.
The craftsman comes out singing
At his door, his work in hand,
And gazes at the glistening sky.
A girl runs out to draw the water,
Fresh from the recent rain.
From street to street,
The vegetable seller
Takes up his daily cry again.
Look − the sun’s come back. Look
How it smiles on hills and farms. Servants throw
The windows, terraces, loggias, open wide;
And far off on the highway, you can hear
The jingle of a harness, the creaking of a coach,
As travellers start off again upon the road.
Every heart is light with joy.
When was life as sweet,
As welcoming as now?
When else did mankind bend
To studying, or turn to work,
With so much love? Start something new,
Or ever think less of its own distress?
Joy is born of pain,
But it is hollow joy, the fruit of
Terror that has passed,
Making even those who loathed their lives
Shiver with the fear of death.
And so, in long-drawn torment,
People sweat and tremble,
Shivering, silent, pale, while they see,
Against them gathering round,
Lightning, clouds, and wind.
Kindly nature,
These are the gifts you give,
These the delights you offer
Humankind. Freedom from pain
Is such delight for us.
You scatter suffering with a generous hand.
Sorrow springs up of its own accord;
Whatever pleasure, by some miracle or magic,
Is born of grief, is a great gain. The human
Race, the darling of the gods! Just happy
If we find a breathing space
Between our griefs; and blessed
When all our pain is healed by death.
Italian Poems FAQ
Who is the greatest Italian poet?
Dante Alighieri is widely considered the greatest Italian poet. He is best known for The Divine Comedy, a masterpiece of world literature and a cornerstone of Italian language and culture.
What is an Italian poem called?
An Italian poem is simply called a poesia in Italian. The term can refer to any poetic work, from classical sonnets to modern free verse.
Who is the great poet of Italy?
Dante Alighieri is the most celebrated poet in Italy’s literary history. His work not only defined medieval literature but also helped shape the modern Italian language.
What are the styles of Italian poems?
Italian poetry includes a variety of styles, including the sonetto (sonnet), ottava rima (lit: eighth rhyme, eight-line stanzas with ABABABCC rhyme), and terza rima (lit: third rhyme, interlocking three-line stanzas with ABA BCB CDC…) and free verse.
Experiencing Italy With Italian Poems
These Italian poems are a beautiful way to experience the Italian language, culture, and deep emotions that Italian poets expressed through their writing.
I hope you enjoyed them!
Before you go, let me just remind you that if you want to learn Italian fast with a fresh and fun approach, I've put together some great story-based Italian courses for you.
You’ll learn through a story, not rules (not so much through poems) and cultural references. Click here for a free 7-day trial of my courses.
By the way, if you want even more Italian culture, make sure you take a look at my posts on Italian traditions, traditional Italian dishes, Italian rock bands and Italian love songs.
Olly Richards
Creator of the StoryLearning® Method
Olly Richards is a renowned polyglot and language learning expert with over 15 years of experience teaching millions through his innovative StoryLearning® method. He is the creator of StoryLearning, one of the world's largest language learning blogs with 500,000+ monthly readers.
Olly has authored 30+ language learning books and courses, including the bestselling "Short Stories" series published by Teach Yourself.
When not developing new teaching methods, Richards practices what he preaches—he speaks 8 languages fluently and continues learning new ones through his own methodology.
