Renowned in Italy, Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837) doesn't seem to stack up to our English greats. Perhaps that's because through the translation, I missed out on his poetic meter.
Ill from an early age and controlled by his parents, Leopardi moons over his first love, which was not only unrequited, but also cut short by her early death. His lengthy laments are melodramatic to say the least and he is constantly employing such phrases as: "wretched cruel fate," "tears bedewed," "mournful times," and "cries of anger and despair."
The redeeming quality of his poetry for me is found in small, peaceful vignettes that Leopardi notes in his daily life. A quiet, moonlit garden, a sparrow's springtime song, a woman embroidering on a nearby balcony, a hilltop view of a tranquil lake, encircled by silent trees. These moments of beauty are almost enjoyed by him, before he makes the drastic turn to complain that his lonely "life is a burden and a curse." His poetry would have been far more enjoyable had it been more optimistic.
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