Let the Greek mould his clay
to the forms he’s planned,
and take increasing pleasure
in the product of his hands:
but to us it’s blissful when
we clutch at the Euphrates,
and in the flowing element,
swish to and fro, with ease.
Quenching, so, my burning soul,
I’ll utter what I feel:
gathered in the poet’s pure hand
the waters will congeal.
Impronti pure a forme
il greco la sua creta;
cresca, davanti al figlio
delle sue mani, l’estasi.
Ma la nostra delizia
è attingere all’ Eufrate:
vagare in lungo e in largo
nel liquido elemento.
Se in questo modo estinguo
i bruciori dell’anima,
echeggia una canzone;
se l’attinge il poeta
con mani pure, l’acqua
si inarca e si fa sfera.
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- Boris Pasternak - Soul
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- Federico Garcia Lorca - Prigioniera / The prisoner
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- Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)