Early nostalgic works of Italian poet Salvatore Quasimodo contrast with his later socially concerned poetry; he won the Nobel Prize of 1959 for literature.
He won "for his lyrical poetry, which with classical fire expresses the tragic experience of life in our own times."
My heart inclines to you in solitude, the exile of obscure senses in which what formerly appeared our own transmutes and loves, and now is buried in the night.
Arcs of air are shining on your face; you appear now, just at the time when first dismay afflicts, you make me blanch; the mouth is slow before the light of mirth.
To have you I am losing you, and I do not suffer: still you are fair, unshaken in the gentle pose of sleep: serenity of death, ultimate joy.
I don't speak Italian, but enjoy "reading" it with an English translation side-by-side, and Quasimodo is special, having visited Modica and Ragusa. "Reading" Farnsworth's translation went slowly and not altogether enjoyably. Except for some later pieces the lines were flat and made the poet seem BORING. Pulled out Bevan's translations and found immediate differences and improvements, i.e. sharper images, more idiomatic expression, philosophical depth and emotion. But then again, I am far from an expert.