(Cont.d)and when the hour
of my death comes and my daughter weeps
for me by my pillow, I do not want
any consolation,
I want only you, Lord, now glad,
not with scornful eyes or on the throne,
silent and angry,
hut sweet, just as I used to see you, as a child,
when you sat in the shade of a tree,
moving to and fro
those blue and serene eyes of yours
that opened like a dawn in April, following
the white hand always
raised in benediction
earth and distant sea...
1905
(Translated by Gaetano Cipolla)