My soul is bland and suave and always used

to the pleasure of the natural beauties.

The Nature, my elected mother,

possesses her cares, primordial.

I like to see her for the ample skies,

in the rarefied and soft airs;

I like to see her in the blooming of the fields,

I like to hear her in the singing of the birds.

The streams that run crystalline

have a thousand charms, have strong attraction.

They intone me glorious hymns

that are loved by my heart.

How beautiful it is to see the horizon line,

where the sun behaves in majesty!

In the morning the sun of light is source

and in the afternoon it is nostalgia source.

I love the pureness of snow-covered lily,

I love the flowers in vivid ample ground.

Seeing them, my soul is ascended to the delirium,

just as if Evias saw in saturnalia.

At dawn, when happy sing

the birds limpid harmony,

how many pleasures it wakes me up! How much

sweetness there is in the melancholic and gloomy ampleness!

Lights and sounds later fill the space

in mixed range of lights and sounds;

and then, if I was Homer or Tasso,

would make beautiful verses and good hymns.

I love the Nature in Spring,

full of aromas, of songs and flowers;

beautiful and big she retempers us

the fibers of the ravishments, of the loves.

In vernal dawns, clear, smiling,

or in winter nights without fulgor,

in beautiful or unhappy perspectives —