Umberto Saba

“To My WifeYou are like a youngwhite hen.Her feathers rufflein the wind, her neck curvesdown to drink, andshe rummages in the earth:but, in walking, she hasyour slow, queenly step,haughty and proud.She is better than the male.She is like the femalesof all the serene animalswho draw near to God.Here, if my eye, if my judgmentdoesn’t deceive me, among these,you find your equals,and in no other woman.When evening lullsthe little hens to sleep,they make sounds that callto mind those mild, sweetvoices with which you arguewith your pains, and don’t knowthat your voice has the soft, sadmusic of the henyard.You are like a pregnantheifer,still free, and withoutheaviness, merry, in fact;who, if someone strokes her, turnsher neck, where a tenderpink tinges her flesh.If you meet up with her, and hearher bellow, so mournfulis this sound that you tearat the earth to give hera present. In the same way,I offer my gift to youwhen you are sad.You are like a tall, thinfemale dog, that alwayshas so much sweetnessin her eyes and ferociousnessin her heart.At your feet, she seemsa saint who burnswith an indomitable fervorand in this way looks at youas her God and Lord.When you are at home, or goingdown the street, to anyone who tries,uninvited, to approach you,she uncovers her shiningwhite teeth. And her lovesuffers from jealousy.You are like the fearfulrabbit. Within her narrowcage, she stands uprightto look at you, and extendsher long, still ear; she deprivesherself of the husks androots that you bring her,and cowers, seekingthe darkest corners.Who might take awaythis food? Who mighttake away the fur whichshe tears from her backto add to the nest whereshe will give birth?Who would ever makeyou suffer?You are like the swallowwhich returns in the spring.But each autumn will depart—you don’t have this art.You have this of the swallow:the light movements;that which, to me, seemedand was old, you proclaimanother spring.You are like the providentant. She whom the grandmotherspeaks of to the child as theygo out in the countryside.And thus I find youin the bumble beeand in all the femalesof all the serene animalswho draw near to God.And in no other woman.”

“Every evening words, not stars, light the sky. No rest in life like life itself.”