James Joyce

O bella, bionda
sei come l’onda

OF cool sweet dew and radiance mild

The moon a web of silence weaves

In the still garden where a child

Gathers the simple salad leaves.

A moon-dew stars her hanging hair,

And moonlight touches her young brow;

And, gathering, she sings an air:

“Fair as the wave is, fair art thou.”

Be mine, I pray, a waxen ear

To shield me from her childish croon,

And mine a shielded heart to her

Who gathers simples of the moon.