Franz Kafka

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Monday, November 30, 2015

A few words on "October," by Robert Frost, and a version in Italian by LiteraryJoint; October (Ottobre) by Robert Frost, translated in Italian

"Autumn Effect at Argenteuil," by Claude Monet, 1873,
Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London, UK

The poem "October," by Robert Frost, first published in 1915 in the collection "A Boy's Will," captures the moment where Fall is slowly yields to Winter, and the frozen, white season is looming from a short distance. Yet, October has the power to deceive a soul, and invites to cling to a life that is still beckoning, apparently brimming with expectations. This sweet beguile is dear to the poet, who lingers in the Autumnal limbo, to nourish and soon collect the grapes, the harvest of a lifetime.


October

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
 
From "A boy's will," 1915, by Robert Frost.


Ottobre


Oh mattino gentile d'ottobre silente,
Nell'autunno sono maturate le tue foglie;
Domani il vento, se infuria tagliente,
Infieririrà  sulle tutte quante le spoglie.
I corvi chiamano da sopra le foreste;
E domani già potrebbero volarsene in stormo.
Oh mattino gentile d'ottobre silente,
Incedi con lentezza le ore di questo giorno.
Fa che il dì ci paia meno breve.
I cuori non sono avversi all'inganno che mente,
Come sai tu, ingannaci tutt'intorno.
Lascia cadere una foglia allo spuntare dell'alba;
Al mezzodì lasciane cadere un'altra lieve;
Una dai nostri alberi, solo di lontano un'altra.
Rallenta il sole con la foschia tenue;
Incanta il creato con ametiste.
Piano, piano!
Per il bene dell'uva,
Le cui foglie dal gelo sono già ferite,
Il cui frutto a grappolo altrimenti perisce—
Per il bene dell'uva lungo le mura.

Robert Frost, dalla raccolta "A boy's will" (1915).

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