(Genov�ban a Szent h�ten)
 

K�sz�ltam a Scoglietton, a messzi csendben,
Narancsokkal teli cs�ggtek az �gak,
Mint az aranyl�mp�sok, �gy ragyogtak;
Egy verdes� sz�rny� mad�r megrebben,
Sziromes� hull, s hevernek el�ttem
A s�padt n�rciszok, mint ez�st holdak:
A z�ld �bl�n fodros hull�mok futnak,
Oly �des az �let, s �n csak nevettem.
Kint egy ifj� pap dalolva l�pkedett,
’J�zust, M�ri�nak szent fi�t meg�lt�k,
J�jjetek, s d�sz�tse vir�g a s�rj�t.’
Ah, Istenem! A dr�ga Hell�n �r�k
Feledtet�k mind b�natod eml�k�t,
Katon�t, L�ndzs�t, Koron�t s Keresztet.

2009-03-22

Sonnet

Written in Holy Week at Genoa

I WANDERED in Scoglietto’s green retreat,
The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
“Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.