Per me si va nella citta dolente.

             —Dante
       

             Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
             D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
             Girando senza posa,
             Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;
             Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
             Indovinar non so.

             Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
             Ogni creata cosa,
             In te, morte, si posa
             Nostra ignuda natura;
             Lieta no, ma sicura
             Dell' antico dolor . . .
             Pero ch' esser beato
             Nega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.

             —Leopardi
       

  Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
    My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."
  Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
    To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
  Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?             5
  Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
    And wail life's discords into careless ears?

  Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles
    To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth
  Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,                10
    False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;
  Because it gives some sense of power and passion
  In helpless innocence to try to fashion
    Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.

  Surely I write not for the hopeful young,                   15
    Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
  Or such as pasture and grow fat among
    The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,
  Or pious spirits with a God above them
  To sanctify and glorify and love them,                      20
    Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

  For none of these I write, and none of these
    Could read the writing if they deigned to try;
  So may they flourish in their due degrees,
    On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.             25
  If any cares for the weak words here written,
  It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,
    Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

  Yes, here and there some weary wanderer
    In that same city of tremendous night,                    30
  Will understand the speech and feel a stir
    Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;
  "I suffer mute and lonely, yet another
  Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother
    Travels the same wild paths though out of sight."         35

  O sad Fraternity, do I unfold
    Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?
  Nay, be assured; no secret can be told
    To any who divined it not before:                         40
  None uninitiate by many a presage
  Will comprehend the language of the message,
    Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.

                                    I

  The City is of Night; perchance of Death
    But certainly of