Elsa Koeberlé's "Italy" (1906)

Elsa Koeberlé was a French poet, born in Strasbourg (Alsace) in 1881. At the beginning of the XX Century, Elsa sends three poems (signed as Sybil O’Santry) to one of the founders of the prestigious newspaper Mercure de France, Rémy De Gourmont. Not only will she get them published, but in a few years she will have her own work "La guirlande des jours" ("The Garland Of Days") published too. In the meantime, she travels to varioud European countries and later publishes "Les Accords" ("The Cords"; 1906) and "Décors et chants" ("Decors And Songs"; 1909) and "Strasbourg" (1911). The poem "Italie" ("Italy") is taken from "Les accords" and was presumably written after being inspired by her travel to Italy. Translation from French to Italian is also included in this post. 

Italy I keep as relics Your melancholic look, Your marked profile… The landscape in flat shades Made your paleness paler, More poignant and more passionate. You were swift and compassionate, As the big tragic cypress That reflect themselves in the Arno. And when you cross your bare hands, they would make you believe you got down from frescoes by Filippino. So your fluttering eyelids, Your desiring and waiting look Are nothing but a vehement mask . You are very cold and very pure, And no one unties the belt Of your unadorned dresses. Italia Guardo come a reliquie Il vostro sguardo malinconico, Il vostro profilo accentuato… Il paesaggio in tinte piatte Rendono il vostro pallor ancor più chiaro, Più struggente e passionale. Eravate svelta e compassionevole, Come i grandi tragici cipressi Che si riflettono nell’Arno. E quando incrociate le vostre mani nude, Vi crederete appena discesa Da un affresco di Filippino. Pertanto le vostre battenti palpebre, la vostra aria di desiderio ed attesa Non son altro che una maschera veemente. Siete molto fredda e molto pura, E nulla ne scioglie la cintura Delle vostre vesti senza decori.

Italie

Je garde comme des reliques Votre regard mélancolique, Votre profil accentué… Le paysage en teintes plates Rendait votre pâleur plus mate, Plus poignante et plus passionnée. Vous étiez svelte et pathétique, Comme les grands cyprès tragiques Qui se reflètent dans l’Arno. Et quand vous croisiez vos mains nues, On vous aurait cru descendue Des fresques de Filippino. Pourtant vos paupières battantes, Votre air de désir et d’attente Ne sont qu’un masque véhément. Vous êtes très froide et très pure, Et nul ne dénoue la ceinture De vos robes sans ornement