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Autumn always makes me think of the poem San Martino by Giosue’ Carducci; we had to learn by heart at elementary school.

It’s amongst my favourites, and I still know it by heart.

La nebbia agli irti colli
Piovigginando sale,
E sotto il maestrale
urla e biancheggia il mare;
Ma per le vie del borgo
Dal ribollir dè tini
Va l’aspro odor de i vini
L’anime a rallegrar.
Gira sΓΉ ceppi accesi
Lo spiedo scoppiettando:
Sta il cacciator fischiando
Su l’uscio a rimirar
Tra le rossastre nubi
Stormi d’uccelli neri,
Com’esuli pensieri,
Nel vespero migrar.

Translated by John Baker in:

Drizzling, the fog
the steep hills climbs,
and the northwest wind torments
the howling, foaming sea:
but in the village streets
the seething vats send forth
the pungent smell of wine
and cheer the weary souls.
On fiery logs the roast
turns on its spit and crackles;
the hunter stands and whistles
and watches from his door
the flocks of birds that,
back upon reddish clouds,
like forlorn thoughts gyrate
at dusk, preparing to migrate.

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