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This poem is taken from PN Review 136, Volume 27 Number 2, November - December 2000.

A Translation and Four Poems Michael Hamburger

Leopardi: The Infinite

This desolate hill was always dear to me,
Dear, too, this hedge which from so great a stretch
Of the horizon's limit blocks my seeing.
But as I sit here, looking, now the endless
Spaces beyond the seen, the superhuman
Silences, quietude deeper than deep
My thought seeks out; in which the heart just fails
To suffer dread. And as I hear the wind
Rush through these near plants' leafage, I proceed
To blend that infinite silence with this voice,
Comparing them; recall eternity,
The seasons past and this one present to me
And living, and their sounds; and so my thought
Through this immensity negates itself:
And gladly I go down in that sweet sea.

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