I Pastori - by Gabriele D'Annunzio

I Pastori "I Pastori" is a short poem included in the collection Alcyone - Sogni di terre lontane (composed between 1903 and 1907).

Starting with the famous words "Settembre, andiamo..." It is a nostalgic lyric, written by the poet while he was away from his homeland, longing for the colors, tastes, sounds of his mountains and coasts.

The title, "The shepherds", also expresses the heritage of the ancestral traditions of transhumance that since time immemorial have marked the character of Abruzzo people, and other mountain migratory populations, almost making them always accustomed to move and adapt to new environments.

Settembre, andiamo. È tempo di migrare.
Ora in terra d'Abruzzi i miei pastori
lascian gli stazzi e vanno verso il mare:
scendono all'Adriatico selvaggio
che verde è come i pascoli dei monti.
September, let us go. It's time to migrate.
Now in the land of Abruzzi my shepherds
leave the pens and go down to the sea:
they go down to the wild Adriatic
that is green like the mountain pastures.
Han bevuto profondamente ai fonti
alpestri, che sapor d'acqua natìa
rimanga ne' cuori esuli a conforto
che lungo illuda la lor sete in via.
Rinnovato hanno verga d'avellano.
They drank deeply from the mountain
springs, so that the taste of native water
will remain in the exiled hearts to comfort them
that long will deceive their thirst on the way.
They renewed their hazelnut rods.
E vanno pel tratturo antico al piano,
quasi per un erbal fiume silente
su le vestigia degli antichi padri.
O voce di colui che primamente
conosce il tremolar della marina!
And they go along the ancient track to the plain,
almost a silent grassy river
on the footsteps of the ancient fathers.
O voice of that one who first
sights the trembling of the sea!
Ora lungh'esso il litoral cammina
la greggia. Senza mutamento è l'aria.
Il sole imbionda sì la viva lana
che quasi dalla sabbia non divaria.
Isciaquìo, calpestìo, dolci rumori.
Now along the seafront are going
the sheep. Without change is the air.
The sun makes the living wool so yellow
that almost from the sand does not differ.
waves lapping, stamping, sweet noises.
Ah perchè non son io co' miei pastori?
Alas, why am I not with my shepherds?