Silvia, do you remember the moments, in your mortal life, when beauty still shone in your sidelong, laughing eyes, and you, light and thoughtful, went 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 would look at the serene sky, the gold lit gardens and paths, that side the mountains, this side the far-off sea. And human tongue cannot say what I felt then.
What sweet thoughts, what hopes, what hearts, O Silvia mia! How it appeared to us then, all human life and fate! 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 have 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.