Withheld as things forbidden, But clamorous with innumerable delight In May's red, green, and white, In the far-floated standard of the spring, That bids men also sing, Our flower of flags, our witness that we are free, Our lamp for land and sea; From where Majano feels through corn and vine Spring move and melt as wine, And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose The immeasurable rose; From hill-sides plumed with pine, and heights wind-worn That feel the refluent morn, Or where the moon's face warm and passionate Burns, and men's hearts grow great, And the swoln eyelids labour with sweet tears, And in their burning ears Sound throbs like flame, and in their eyes new light Kindles the trembling night; From faint illumined fields and starry valleys Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno raise One Tuscan tune of praise. O lordly city of the field of death, Praise him with equal breath, From sleeping streets and gardens, and the stream That threads them as a dream Threads without light the untravelled ways of sleep With eyes that smile or weep; From the sweet sombre beauty of wave and wall That fades and does not fall; From coloured domes and cloisters fair with fame, Praise thou and thine his name. Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers, Clothed with the flame of flowers, From windy ramparts girdled with young gold, From thy sweet hillside fold Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom And every blowing plume, Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair As the outer hills and air, Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante fed, Our highest heroic head, Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and flame The maiden face of fame Like April's in Valdelsa; fair as flowers, And patient as the hours; Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with faith That levels life and death; The final fame, that with a foot sublime Treads down reluctant time; The fame that waits and watches and is wise, A virgin with chaste eyes, A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; Praise her, and him, our chief. Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, O Fonte Branda, sing: Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, Shake out thy flying flags In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; Bid thy full music fill The desolate red waste of sunset air And fields the old time saw fair, But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, Wild work of mortal
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