“I limoni” (The Lemon Trees) by Eugenio Montale, translated in English. From the collection “Ossi di seppia” (Cuttlefish bones,) I limoni Eugenio Montale Ascoltami, i poeti laureati si muovono soltanto fra le piante dai nomi poco usati: bossi ligustri o acanti. lo, per me, amo. Villa Montale: an exclusive, luxury apartment, historical landmark in Monterosso, at first floor of an amazing, pure Art deco’ style villa, built up in the late ‘s.
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Eugenio Montale was born into a family of businessmen in Genoa, Italy, on October 12, During World War I, he served as an infantry officer on the Austrian front. Orginially Montale had trained to be an opera singer, but when his voice teacher died inhe gave up singing and concentrated his efforts on writing.
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After his first book, Ossi di seppia Cuttlefish Bonesappeared inMontale was received by critics as a profoundly original mlntale experimental poet. His style mixed archaic words with scientific terms and idioms from the vernacular. He was dismissed from his directorship of the Gabinetto Vieusseux research library in for refusing to join the Fascist party.
He withdrew from public life and began translating English writers such as ShakespeareT. It was this trio of books established him as a founder of the hermetic school of Italian poetry.
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In he moved from Florence to Milan, where he became chief literary critic for Italy’s primary newspaper, Corriere della Sera. In addition to writing poems, Montale was also a prolific essayist, writer of stories and travel sketches, distinguished music critic, translator, and amateur painter.
InMontale was awarded an honorary degree at the University of Rome and shortly afterwards, at the universities of Milan, Cambridge, and Basel. In recognition of his work, as well as his courageous opposition to fascism, he was made a lifetime member of the Italian Senate in After a long break from writing poetry, Montale published four collections during the last ten years of his life: Satura Miscellany,Diario del ’71 e del ’72 Diary of and, Quaderno di quattro anni Notebook of Four Years,and Altri versi e poesi disperse Other and Uncollected Poems, In he received the Nobel Prize in Literature “for his distinctive poetry which, with great artistic sensitivity, has interpreted human values under the sign of an outlook on life with no illusions.
Altri versi e poesi disperse Diario Finisterre L’opera in versi La bufera e altro Limobi casa dei doganieri e altre poesie Le occasioni Ossi di seppia Quaderno di quattro anni Quaderno di traduzioni Satura Cronache in due tempi Fuori ,ontale casa La farfalla di Dinard Nel nostro tempo Eugenio Montale was bornin Genoa, Italy, in He served as an infantry officer in World War I and published his first book of poetry in Montale, who received the Nobel Prize in Literature, died in Leave this field blank.
The Lemon Trees Eugenio Montale- Hear me a moment. Laureate poets seem to wander among plants no one knows: I prefer small streets that falter into grassy ditches where a boy, searching in the sinking puddles, might capture a struggling eel. The little path that winds down along the slope plunges through cane-tufts and opens suddenly into the orchard among the moss-green trunks of the lemon ilmoni. Perhaps it is better if the jubilee of small birds montae down, swallowed in the sky, yet more real to one who listens, the murmur of tender leaves in a breathless, unmoving air.
The senses are graced with an odor filled with the earth.
It is like rain in a troubled breast, sweet as an air that arrives too suddenly and vanishes. A miracle is hushed; all passions are swept aside.
Even the poor know that richness, the fragrance of the lemon trees. You realize that in silences things yield and almost betray their ultimate secrets. At times, one half expects to discover an error in Nature, the still point of reality, the missing link that will not hold, the thread we cannot untangle in order to get at the truth.
Your mind seeks, makes harmonies, falls apart in the perfume, expands when the day wearies away. There are silences in which one watches in every fading human shadow something divine let go.
The illusion wanes, and in time we return to our noisy cities where the blue appears only in fragments high up among the towering shapes. Then rain leaching the earth.
Tedious, winter burdens the roofs, and light is a miser, the soul bitter.
Babel Web Anthology :: Montale, Eugenio: The Lemon Trees (I limoni in English)
Yet, one day through an open gate, among the green luxuriance of a yard, the yellow lemons fire and the heart melts, and golden songs pour into the breast from the raised cornets of the sun. The lemon bushes overflowed with the patter of mole paws, the scythe shined in its rosary limmoni cautious water drops.
A dot, a ladybug, ignited above the quince berries as the snort of a rearing pony broke through, bored with his rub-down—then the dream took over. Kidnapped, and weightless, I was montqle with. We don’t know if tomorrow has green pastures in mongale for us to lie down in beside the ever-youthful patter of fresh water or if it means to plant us in some arid outback ugly valley of the shadow where dayspring’s lost for good, interred beneath a lifetime of mistakes.
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