To Giusue Carducci

O RICH and splendid soul that overflowest   
 With light and fire caught from thy native skies!—   
 Whose latent storm is lurid in thine eyes   
When with august and bended brows thou throwest   
  
Thy Jove-like bolt upon the world below.           
 Woe, woe the wretch—that ever he was born!   
 Whom once the fierce sirocco of thy scorn   
Encircles, deadly, withering,—Ah woe!   
  
But thrice-blest She, whom with one golden word   
 Thou settest in the firmament of heaven,           
 A happy, deathless star;—a wonder given   
To awe-eyed mortals while thy voice is heard.   
  
And she—ah me!—her name is—ITALY!   
 Most glorious and most woful of all names!   
 Whose sweet sound the whole world’s vast heart inflames           
So chanted by her last great son—by thee