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Dante Alighieri - 13 - Purgatorio - Carlo D'Angelo Et Alia
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Vago già di cercar dentro e dintorno la divina foresta spessa e viva, ch'a li occhi temperava il novo giorno,
sanza più aspettar, lasciai la riva, prendendo la campagna lento lento su per lo suol che d'ogne parte auliva.
Un'aura dolce, sanza mutamento avere in sé, mi feria per la fronte non di più colpo che soave vento;
per cui le fronde, tremolando, pronte tutte quante piegavano a la parte u' la prim' ombra gitta il santo monte;
non però dal loro esser dritto sparte tanto, che li augelletti per le cime lasciasser d'operare ogne lor arte;
ma con piena letizia l'ore prime, cantando, ricevieno intra le foglie, che tenevan bordone a le sue rime,
tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie per la pineta in su 'l lito di Chiassi, quand' Ëolo scilocco fuor discioglie.
Già m'avean trasportato i lenti passi dentro a la selva antica tanto, ch'io non potea rivedere ond' io mi 'ntrassi;
ed ecco più andar mi tolse un rio, che 'nver' sinistra con sue picciole onde piegava l'erba che 'n sua ripa uscìo.
Tutte l'acque che son di qua più monde, parrieno avere in sé mistura alcuna verso di quella, che nulla nasconde,
avvegna che si mova bruna bruna sotto l'ombra perpetüa, che mai raggiar non lascia sole ivi né luna.
Coi piè ristetti e con li occhi passai di là dal fiumicello, per mirare la gran varïazion d'i freschi mai;
e là m'apparve, sì com' elli appare subitamente cosa che disvia per maraviglia tutto altro pensare,
una donna soletta che si gia e cantando e scegliendo fior da fiore ond' era pinta tutta la sua via.
«Deh, bella donna, che a' raggi d'amore ti scaldi, s'i' vo' credere a' sembianti che soglion esser testimon del core,
vegnati in voglia di trarreti avanti», diss' io a lei, «verso questa rivera, tanto ch'io possa intender che tu canti.
Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era Proserpina nel tempo che perdette la madre lei, ed ella primavera». (Purg.28, 1-51)
- which P.B.Shelley translated thus-
And earnest to explore within—around— The divine wood, whose thick green living woof Tempered the young day to the sight—I wound
Up the green slope, beneath the forest’s roof, With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain’s steep, And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof
Against the air, that in that stillness deep And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare, The slow, soft stroke of a continuous ...
In which the ... leaves tremblingly were All bent towards that part where earliest The sacred hill obscures the morning air.
Yet were they not so shaken from the rest, But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray, Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,
With perfect joy received the early day, Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound Kept a low burden to their roundelay,
Such as from bough to bough gathers around The pine forest on bleak Chiassi’s shore, When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.
My slow steps had already borne me o’er Such space within the antique wood, that I Perceived not where I entered any more,—
When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by, Bending towards the left through grass that grew Upon its bank, impeded suddenly
My going on. Water of purest hue On earth, would appear turbid and impure Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,
Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms The rays of moon or sunlight ne’er endure.
I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms
Which starred that night, when, even as a thing That suddenly, for blank astonishment, Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,—
A solitary woman! and she went Singing and gathering flower after flower, With which her way was painted and besprent.
Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power To bear true witness of the heart within, Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower
Towards this bank. I prithee let me win This much of thee, to come, that I may hear Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen,
Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when She lost the Spring, and Ceres her more dear.
The Purgatorio read by Carlo D'Angelo, Antonio Crast, Romolo Valli, Tino Carraro, Achille Millo, and Arnoldo Foa. Again, this is the classic version from 1962 when Cetra-Fonit assembled the best verse readers of the day. Here, I use the CD release from Warner Italia in 2006. Kindly seed.
