05.05.2009, 18:59
THE FIUMARA.
They say that river, now beneath the sun
Spreading his waste of shingle, broad and bare,
With clear green pools in the shadow here and there,
Doth in the winter like a deluge run ;
And not with streams that since the world begun
Were loved, or glorious, doth he fear compare ;
So wildly do his nymphs their beryl hair
Toss up and down, nor sight then coyly shun.
And by his rising, so doth fame report,
Far flying as the rack in those loud days,
The chorus of the Maenad cs remain ;
For on his waves come trophies of their sport,
Ivy, and trees uprooted, pines, and bays,
And evermore a fierce exulting strain.
They say that river, now beneath the sun
Spreading his waste of shingle, broad and bare,
With clear green pools in the shadow here and there,
Doth in the winter like a deluge run ;
And not with streams that since the world begun
Were loved, or glorious, doth he fear compare ;
So wildly do his nymphs their beryl hair
Toss up and down, nor sight then coyly shun.
And by his rising, so doth fame report,
Far flying as the rack in those loud days,
The chorus of the Maenad cs remain ;
For on his waves come trophies of their sport,
Ivy, and trees uprooted, pines, and bays,
And evermore a fierce exulting strain.