Easter 1916, Yeats surprise

So imagine you're going through your old English notes from year 5 of High School, looking for translations made during class to find dating information… and you find yourself confronted with a complete Italian version of Yeats, Easter 1916, which you had completely forgotten you'd made on 10/3/12! Yes, that's what happened to me on 17/11/21 in the dead of night. Well, as it turns out, it wasn't really made on 10/3, or at least I cannot be sure. The original form is already printed, so it wasn't done in class. It's included in the notebook right below the notes from 10/3 and before those from 12/3, so that's a time frame. The printout is the version below, except for l. 2 reading «Venivan con vividi volti», with annotations adding "Che" at the start, "vivaci" at the end, and crossing out "vividi". The final version of the line is in a file last edited 28/4/12 18:44, so that's a hard limit. I find it extremely unlikely that I'd have made a tweak too far away from when the translation was made, so I'd limit this to March 2012. So here it goes!

I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our winged horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road. The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse - MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

Li ho incontrati al finire del giorno: Che venivan con volti vivaci Da banconi e scrittoi tra grigie Case del diciottesimo secolo. Son passato con cenno del capo O gentili parole insensate, Od un poco ho aspettato ed ho detto Gentili parole insensate, E pensiero avevo pria fatto D’una beffa o racconto schernente Per fare piacere a un compagno Al circolo, intorno al fuoco, Stando certo che loro ed io Vivevamo u’ s’indossa arlecchino: Tutto è completamente mutato: Bellezza terribile è nata. D’esta donna i giorni fûr spesi In un buono volere ignorante, Le sue notti in continui litigi Finché stridula voce ella aveva. Quale voce della sua più dolce Quando, bella e giovane ancora, Cavalcava coi cani da caccia? Quell’uomo ha tenuto una scuola, Cavalcato il Pegaso nostro; L’altro, aiuto per lui ed amico, Alla forza di lui propinquava; Alla fine potea vincer fama, Sì sensibil parea di natura, Di pensiero sì dolce ed audace. Quest’altr’uomo avevo sognato, Ebbro zotico vanaglorioso. Avea fatto amarissimo torto Ad alcuni vicini al mio cuore, Pur l’enumero in questa canzone; Anche lui s’è dimesso dal ruolo Nella nostra casuale commedia; Fu mutato, lui pure, a sua volta, Trasformato completamente: Bellezza terribile è nata. I cuori con un solo scopo In inverno ed estate sembrano Da magia in pietra mutati Per turbar la corrente che vive. Il cavallo che vien dalla strada, Chi cavalca, gli uccelli che spaziano Da una nube che corre ad un’altra, Di minuto in minuto essi mutano; Un’ombra di nube sull’acqua, Di minuto in minuto essa muta; Uno zoccolo slitta sul bordo, E un cavallo v’è dentro caduto; Gallinelle* dalle gambe lunghe    gallinelle d’acqua Vi si tuffano, e chiamano i làpoghi; Minuto a minuto essi vivono: Ed in mezzo a ogni cosa è la pietra. Sacrificio troppo prolungato Può fare del cuore una pietra. Oh quando potrà mai bastare? È la parte del cielo, la nostra, Mormorare nome dopo nome, Mentre madre dà il nome al suo bimbo Quando alfine il sonno è giunto Sulle membra inselvatichite. Cos’è questo se non il crepuscolo? Non la notte, no, no, ma la morte; Fu un’inutile morte, alla fine? L’Inghilterra può star confidente D’ogni cosa ch’è fatta e detta. Conosciamo il lor sogno; abbastanza Per saper che sognâro e son morti; Che sarebbe s’eccesso d’amore Sconcertasseli fin che morisser? Io lo scrivo in una poesia – MacDonagh insieme a MacBride Ed a Connolly e pure a Pearse Adesso e nel tempo a venire, Dovunque s’indossa il verde, Sono completamente mutati: Bellezza terribile è nata.