# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 19

TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.
 This wearisome and this distressing sleep  That we call life, O how dost thou support,  My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou  Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds,  Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest  The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed  To thee, a dull and heavy heritage?  All life, indeed, in every walk of life,  Is idleness, if we may give that name  To every work achieved, or effort made,  That has no worthy aim in view, or fails  That aim to reach. And if you idle call  The busy crew, that daily we behold,  From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve,  Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks,  Because they live simply to keep alive,  And life is worthless for itself alone,  The honest truth you speak. His nights and days  The pilot spends in idleness; the toil  And sweat in workshops are but idleness;  The soldier's vigils, perils of the field,  The eager merchant's cares are idle all;  Because true happiness, for which alone  Our mortal nature longs and strives, no man,  Or for himself, or others, e'er acquires  Through toil or sweat, through peril, or through care.  Yet for this fierce desire, which mortals still  From the beginning of the world have felt,  But ever felt in vain, for happiness,  By way of soothing remedy devised,  Nature, in this unhappy life of ours,  Had manifold necessities prepared,  Not without thought or labor satisfied;  So that the days, though ever sad, less dull  Might seem unto the human family;  And this desire, bewildered and confused,  Might have less power to agitate the heart.  So, too, the various families of brutes,  Who have, no less than we, and vainly, too,  Desire for happiness; but they, intent  On that which is essential to their life,  Consume their days more pleasantly, by far,  Nor chide, with us, the dulness of the hours.  But _we_, who unto other hands commit  The furnishing of our immediate wants,  Have a necessity more grave to meet,  For which no other ever can provide,  With ennui laden, and with suffering;  The stern necessity of killing time;  That cruel, obstinate necessity,  From which, nor hoarded gold, nor wealth of flocks,  Nor fertile fields, nor sumptuous palaces,  Nor purple robes, the race of man can save.  And if one, scorning such a barren life,  And hating to behold the light of day,  Turns not a homicidal hand upon  Himself, anticipating sluggish Fate,  For the sharp sting of unappeased desire,  That vainly calls for happiness, he seeks,  In desperate chase, on every side, in vain,  A thousand inefficient remedies,  In lieu of that, which Nature gives to all.
 One to his dress devotes himself, and hair,  His gait and gesture and the learned lore  Of horses, carriages, to crowded halls,  To thronged piazzas, and to gardens gay;  Another gives his nights and days to games,  And feasts, and dances with the reigning belles:  A smile perpetual is on his lips;  But in his breast, alas, stern and severe,  Like adamantine column motionless,  Eternal ennui sits, against whose might  Avail not vigorous youth, nor prattle fond  That falls from rosy lips, nor tender glance  That trembles in two dark and lustrous eyes;  The most bewildering of mortal things,  Most precious gift of heaven unto man.
 Another, as if hoping to escape  Sad destiny, in changing lands and climes  His days consuming, wandering o'er sea  And hills, the whole earth traverses; each spot  That Nature, in her infinite domain,  To restless man hath made accessible,  He visits in his wanderings. Alas,  Black care is seated on the lofty prow;  Beneath each clime, each sky, he asks in vain  For happiness; sadness still lives and reigns.
 Another in the cruel deeds of war  Prefers to pass his hours, and dips his hand,  For his diversion, in his brother's blood:  Another in his neighbor's misery  His comfort finds, and artfully contrives  To kill the time, in making others sad.  _This_ man still walks in wisdom's ways, or art  Pursues; _that_ tramples on the people's rights,  At home, abroad; the ancient rest disturbs  Of distant shores, on fraudful gain intent,  With cruel war, or sharp diplomacy;  And so his destined part of life consumes.
 Thee a more gentle wish, a care more sweet  Leads and controls, still in the flower of youth,  In the fair April of thy days, to most  A time so pleasant, heaven's choicest gift;  But heavy, bitter, wearisome to _him_  Who has no country. Thee the love of song  Impels, and of portraying in thy speech  The beauty, that so seldom in the world  Appears and fades so soon, and _that_, more rare  Which fond imagination, kinder far  Than Nature, or than heaven, so bounteously  For our entranced, deluded souls provides.  Oh, fortunate a thousand-fold is he,  Who loses not his fancy's freshness as  The years roll by; whom envious Fate permits  To keep eternal sunshine in his heart,  Who, in his ripe and his declining years,  As was his custom in his glorious youth,  In his deep thought enhances Nature's charms,  Gives life to death, and to the desert, bloom.  May heaven this fortune give to thee; and may  The spark that now so warms thy breast, make thee  In thy old age a votary of song!  _I_ feel no more the sweet illusions of  That happy time; those charming images  Have faded from my eyes, that I so loved,  And which, unto my latest hour, will be  Remembered still, with hopeless sighs and tears.  And when this breast to all things has become  Insensible and cold, nor the sweet smile  And rest profound of lonely sun-lit plains,  Nor cheerful morning song of birds in spring,  Nor moonlight soft, that rests on hills and fields,  Beneath the limpid sky, will move my heart;  When every beauty, both of Nature, and  Of Art, to me will be inanimate  And mute; each tender feeling, lofty thought,  Unknown and strange; my only comfort, then,  Poor beggar, must I find in studies more  Severe; to them, thenceforward, must devote  The wretched remnant of unhappy life:  The bitter truth must I investigate,  The destinies mysterious, alike  Of mortal and immortal things;  For what was suffering humanity,  Bowed down beneath the weight of misery,  Created; to what final goal are Fate  And Nature urging it; to whom can our  Great sorrow any pleasure, profit give;  Beneath what laws and orders, to what end,  The mighty Universe revolves--the theme  Of wise men's praise, to _me_ a mystery?
 I in these speculations will consume  My idleness; because the truth, when known,  Though sad, has yet its charms. And if, at times,  The truth discussing, my opinions should  Unwelcome be, or not be understood,  I shall not grieve, indeed, because in me  The love of fame will be extinguished quite;  Of fame, that idol frivolous and blind;  More blind by far than Fortune, or than Love.