<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359086" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Village Saturday Night</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The damsel from the field returns,<br>The sun is sinking in the west;<br>Her bundle on her head she sets,<br>And in her hand she bears<br>A bunch of roses and of violets.<br>To-morrow is a holiday,<br>And she, as usual, must them wear<br>Upon her bodice, in her hair.<br>The old crone sits among her mates,<br>Upon the stairs, and spins;<br>And, looking at the fading light,<br>Of good old-fashioned times she prates,<br>When she, too, dressed for holidays,<br>And with light heart, and limb as light,<br>Would dance at night<br>With the companions of her merry days.<br>The twilight shades around us close,<br>The sky to deepest blue is turned;<br>From hills and roofs the shadows fall,<br>And the new moon her face of silver shows.<br>And now the cheerful bell<br>Proclaims the coming festival.<br>By its familiar voice<br>How every heart is cheered!<br>The children all in troops,<br>Around the little square<br>Go, leaping here and there,<br>And make a joyful sound.<br>Meanwhile the ploughman, whistling, returns<br>Unto his humble nest,<br>And thinks with pleasure of his day of rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, when all other lights are out,<br>And all is silent round,<br>The hammer's stroke we hear,<br>We hear the saw of carpenter,<br>Who with closed doors his vigil keeps,<br>Toils o'er his lamp and strives so hard,<br>His work to finish ere the dawn appear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The dearest day of all the week<br>Is this, of hope and joy so full;<br>To-morrow, sad and dull,<br>The hours will bring, for each must in his thought<br>His customary task-work seek.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou little, sportive boy,<br>This blooming age of thine<br>Is like to-day, so full of joy;<br>And is the day, indeed,<br>That must the sabbath of thy life precede.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enjoy, it, then, my darling child,<br>Nor speed the flying hours!<br>I say to thee no more:<br>Alas, in this sad world of ours,<br>How far exceeds the holiday,<br>The day that goes before!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Count+Giacomo+Leopardi">Count Giacomo Leopardi</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359086" data-title="The Village Saturday Night de Count Giacomo Leopardi" data-description="The damsel from the field returns, The sun is sinking in the west; Her bundle on her head she sets, And in her hand she bears A bunch of roses and of violets. To-morrow is a holiday, And she, as usual, must them wear Upon her bodice, in her hair. ..."></div> </div> </div>

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