• Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost


  • To the Evening

Perhaps because of the fatal silence you are the image I cherish when you come to me, o evening! and when happily the summer clouds and the warm breezes court you

or when from the snowy air you lead restless and long shadows upon the universe you always descend, invoked by me, and the secret pathways of my heart you gently hold.

You make me follow with my thoughts in the footsteps that lead to the eternal void, and meanwhile this guilty age passes away, and with it the crowds

of cares depart, so that it dissipates with me; and while I contemplate your peace, the warrior spirit that roars within me sleeps.

- Ugo Foscolo

  • On The Death of Brother Giovanni

One day, brother, when I’m done with this Wandering from tribe to tribe, you’ll find me Seated by your stone at last, lamenting The fallen flower of your gentle years.

Our mother, left alone now, drawing out Her late days, speaks of me to your mute ashes, While I reach out vain hands to both of you Greeting my homeland from afar, and yet

I feel the adverse Fates, the secret cares That were a tempest to you while you lived, And I would share with you your quiet haven.

That much of so much hope is left to me! Strangers, when that day comes, give my bones Back to the bosom of my grieving mother.

- Ugo Foscolo

jun 4 2020 ∞
jun 4 2020 +