A field of wild fowl, ducks swimming and
Beside the lake's outlet on the low hills,
Feronia's grotto had become green, and her temple
stood in the grotto.
Look, there still remains the weathered ruins of
Bend down; creep Inside; then you are standing In
the small rotunda,
Whose walls are ornamented all around with small
Hail, Stifa, where a brook of a wide stream
Out of the midst of the naked breast of the cliff,
Pouring cascades of foam over rocks and boulders
Finally washing over the pinnacle, a natural
obelisk made of
Soft green-gray branches rising up in the middle
of the deep.
Splendid valley! A high valley in the Apennines!
Looking into it,
Rising up boldly and audaciously, is Gran Sasso's
Which stretches its head above the clouds into the
Which looks upon two distant seas by the land at
And the silver arteries of the streams and the
islands on the coast of Spalatro.
When Sol hides behind the mountains and the flaming
Sinks and the day dies out, bluish shadows
Gently move into the valley and envelop it: then
I saw the miracle,
As you, towering head, hit with parting rays,
colored yourself a fiery red and Immersed
Your brow in a purple
You followed me everywhere, my loyal companion,
oh little bee.
Now soar away again; today I am sending you out
Into the distance.