At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
Ebben? Ne andrò lontana,
Come va l’eco della pia campana,
Là, fra le nubi d’ôr;
Laddóve la speranza, la speranza
È rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!
Well? I will go far away,
As far as the echo of the church bell,
There, through the white snow,
There, through the golden clouds,
There, where hope is regret and pain.
She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.