Ave Maria — hour of sadness.

They run, crying, the waters and the wind;

the sun lost the rutilant beauty,

and the light weakens in languid abatement.

Far away, the reddish wide and curved sky

it seems to rest in the high hills;

and the sun gloomy, old and red

it looks itself even with the lakes and sources.

Fly to the space some aching sounds,

of a bell that rings, murmuring;

they intone sad believing old hymns,

in face of the dying twilight.

Then I remember the past days

hibernal and full of bitterness.

My sad soul sings elegies,