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To the Moon

 Oh gracious moon, now as the year turns,
I remember how, heavy with sorrow,
I climbed this hill to gaze on you,
And then as now you hung above those trees
Illuminating all.
But to my eyes Your face seemed clouded, temulous From the tears that rose beneath my lids, So painful was my life: and is, my Dearest moon; its tenor does not change.
And yet, memory and numbering the epochs Of my grief is pleasing to me.
How welcome In that youthful time -when hope's span is long, And memory short -is the remembrance even of Past sad things whose pain endures.

by Giacomo Leopardi
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