Teaser 15: Last coupla days

Window, Saint Peter's, which is actually far more striking than I remember from my jaded McConkieite missionary days, long past, than the heavens.



Michelangelo's Pieta', SP's.



Sfera con sfera, a work dated 1990 and donated to the Vatican where it resides in the "Cortile Pigna," named for the enormous bronze pine cone behind the photographer. Boh. Looks like the Borg mothership to me.



Went to a fireworks championship with the gang. Pretty impressive.



Wendy and her friends from the ward, minus Laura. We went to Anna Maria and Alessandra's house last night for some supper. Great food, great folks. I'm crying already at the thought of leaving this Saturday. Don't wanna.



It's been a while: some verses, in both languages, that come some little way in expressing what I feel for this place--and Wendy concurs. She's converted. We're home.

Prodigal Returned

For whom in deserts lives, in veils of sand,
The greens of these deep Sabine dells are sweet
As fruit after a long and weightsome fast,
Or water poured on tired, dust-sandaled feet.

That there’s a magic—sylvan, pastoral—
Deep in the soil of this deep, ancient place
Is something I can now accept withal:
Makes light the heart, and lighter still the pace.

But there’s a fact that all the more makes this
The place most loved to me upon this earth:
The faces, voices, hands, and welcome kiss
Of this land’s people are its greatest worth.

And even more, a few of its dear saints,
Whose faith and fates are ever tied to mine,
Are met with a long hoped-for joy, unfeigned;
Leaving Rome’s pines, for these I’ll pine.


Smarrito Ritrovato

Per chi viv’in deserti, velato di sabbia,
Son dolci delle colline Sabine i verdi
Come frutta dopo una fame pesant’e lunga,
O l’acqua su polver-calzati piedi.

Che magico, silvano e pastorale,
Si trova profondo in questo suol antico
Or’accetto, senza rinfacciare:
Rende lieto il cuore, e leggero il passo.

Ma c’e’ motivo ancor miglior per cui
L’Italia si’ da me cosi amata:
I visi, le voci, le mani, ed i baci
Son il miglior tesoro ch’essa abbia.

E piu, alcuni dei suoi cari santi,
Cui fede e fortuna tengo care,
Incontro con gioia e calor non finti;
Andando io, m’andranno quelli mancare.



Tomb, If I Must

Burn me when I’m gone
And strew me round
Wherever Chance dictates:
No need for ground.

But if you feel, when I am dead,
To choose a place to lay my head,
To give my bones an eternal home,
Let it be Rome!



Tomba, se debbo

Bruciatemi ben
Quand’io morro’
Spargete le cener
Tanto i’ non vorro’

Ne terra ne tomba: non l’esigero’.
Ma se vi quieta posar testa mia,
O dar a mie ossa una casa eterna
Che Roma sia!