TUTTO POCKET Diritto costituzionale (Italian Edition)

Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt. Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof? On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet. Inside rough bouquets in earthenware jars.

Le ginestre Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia file diritte e uguali come i disegni delle coperte nostrane. Dentro casa mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta.

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Italian Translation of Poems by W. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Com- pany di Chicago. Dal al ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione. Montale , Litania del perduto Prato , testo a fronte in inglese. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return.

Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche , Serie ospedaliera , Documento , Impromptu , Sleep , in inglese.

Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale. Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness. Estinguere la passione bramosa! Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished.

To extinguish covetous passion!

Meaning of "bipartitismo" in the Italian dictionary

To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: Extinguish the passion for self! She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three vol- umes: On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. I corpi allungati Salgono le voci al Dio piangente lamento, anime e lance sotto la gola, inchiodano corazze e morsi nel violetto senza pace. Voce solitaria la parola del mondo mi grida dentro, quasi urla. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon The Long Bodies Voices lift up to the plangent God lament, souls and lances beneath the throat, nailing breastplates and clamps in the violet without peace.

The mists wrap around the hills prayers, drops of water on the stones. A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells. Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end.

Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli. Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale.

Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra. It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world across what fissure will the camel come to pass? Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere — blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly.

That silvery filament binding spirits to the earth fades away into thin air. You would like your tree as an oak made of light with roots dug deep into the ground. Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo sapendo di mentire io tu e gli altri. Mattone su mattone costruisci il castello invisibile con le tante serrature a manico.

Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. Voragine di corvo strapiomba il sereno ma non spezza le radici. Il gesto sonoro segna soltanto una melodia malata. The half-lie scratches insistently aware of its falsehood me you and the others. You pronounce the promise: Brick on brick you build the invisible castle filled with handles and latches. Not even one cloud.

What to believe in if all is smoke that pertains to pale longitudes to implausible structures like eddies in the storms? A fetish of dust hangs behind. The musical touch signals no more than a sickened note dissonance that does not frighten the donkey, its bray makes no sense even if nightly the moon lights up its pelt. In the end what can happen? His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by Chelsea Editions. Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in , worked as an editor and critic.

His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie , which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in He died in September Giovanni Raboni T he more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian poet, of our time. Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that manuscript presented here.

In keeping pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage and the rhymes where they occur , but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many of the sonnets, and so on. Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight peculiar to his vision and now and then simply peculiar ; the passionate moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love.

These are the things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the public shames and outrages of his times. Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva venirci col coltello Ma quello che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, a cosa serve? Se mio padre fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: Lezioni di economia politica Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, le scarpe da vampiro.

E ti ricordi, non ne perdevamo una: Down here, my father said, you were well advised to carry a knife with you Ah yes, the Canal is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker back then, before they covered it Does it seem good to you? Is this the way? Lessons of Political Economy What do you want me to tell you? Bambino morto di fatica ecc.

Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc. And you, if by some chance you were to faint, if no one else was there then you might bleed to death. For which behavior, you sentimentally suggest, he really should be thanked, no amiable or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there to willingly according to our will scrape it away. Personcina Quando dorme se lo chiami muove un orecchio solo. Succhia latte nei sogni dalla sua mamma morta.

Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni. Usa un libro per cuscino. With love, do you see? He adores the taste of coffee grounds. He savors with his paws shawls and thick pullovers. He sleeps on leaves. He uses a book for a head cushion. Gli addii Ogni tanto mi sforzo di ricordarli: Strano gioco, ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. He quivers, green eyes marking the to and fro of pigeons. The Farewells Every once in a while I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, the physican, etc. How much time has gone by! It hardly serves to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves and brain, the problem really is the soul, the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul is not just immortal but immortally immature.

I feel them, lighter than the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of the air, not exiles but commuters of the air in transit between fog and gold. Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, and every evening there is still a show— but now there are no winners in our plays, no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. And while you appear preoccupied by a variety of more innocuous tasks, you still permit your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, brave and foolish as they are What am I saying?

• Le Plus Bel Endroit du monde est ici (French Edition).
• BIPARTITISMO - Definition and synonyms of bipartitismo in the Italian dictionary.
• Expanding ESL, Civics, and Citizenship Education in Your Community: A Start-Up Guide.
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Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way that those who pounded him were one of them from Masnago and the rest from Induno: Never would those of us who were from those parts be so atrociously innocent again. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contem- porary poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the Uni- versity of California, San Diego. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he was a teacher.

His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict. His poetry has been recognized with major prizes in Italy: His literary activity included translation from the French of the works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. He came to me deliberately of this I am certain to make a gift of it.

I can no longer find trace of it. I see again in the leaving day the thin face whitefluted. The sleeve in lace. The grace, so gentle and germanic in its offering. A wind of impact - an air almost siliceous chills now the room. Is it the blade of a knife? Torment beyond the glass and wood - closed - of the shutter? I can no longer find sign of it. I ask the morgana. Conosco le cretacee porte che danno sul mare. Ma i cardini della nascita? I cardini della morte?

Parts - remote - the dawning mouth, but does not speak. She cannot - nothing can - anwer. I no longer hope to find her. I have too jealously irrecoverably hidden her. Reasons The reasons for light. I know the cretaceous doors that lead to the sea. But the reasons for birth? The reasons for death? Era, la sua ragione eversa, la sola Cosa non persa? Was, his ruined reason, the only Thing not lost? Unaware He was under the illusion, having found the accurately lost object again, of having gained something. It was a momentary joy. And he was left troubled.

Almost like someone who suddenly finds himself stripped of an income. He, unaware that anything found again is - always - a loss. But the hard living bodies? The two compact masses taut - almost steelescent? Where the two projecting people?. It is therefore - the place of every conjunction - perpetual parallax? Inventions Those impalpable voices almost transparent. The blue of all those black eyes - non existent? Distant - always more distant - from itself, the mind has lost the name of it. Incorporeal - aphonic - couriers of extinguished notes.

A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is www. Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in and died there in , after a long battle with tuberculosis. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces.

In a land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly rebel. Though not typical of his best- known work, it is profoundly beguiling.

The final line also suggests parallels with another famous journey: Giovanni Pascoli was born in in San Mauro di Romagna a town later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor and died in Bologna, where he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in His personal life was famously full of tragedy: In he published his first collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy. The title of his first book, Myricae, is neatly emblematic of this aspect of his poetics: Subsequent books include Poemetti Shorter poems, , Canti di Castelvecchio Songs from Castelvecchio, , Poemi conviviali Convivial Poems, , and several others.

It is not without fascination, but part of its fascina- tion surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. But both also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. It was such qualities that I tried hardest to convey. Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde, le caravelle invano armarono la prora: Appare talora di lontano tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari.

Radono con le prore quella beata riva: But loveliest of all, the Unfound Isle: The island was not there. In vain the sails of the stout galleys swelled, in vain they fitted out their caravels: Occasionally it appears between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. Their vessels glide along its blessed shore; the dense green sacred forest scents the air; over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar; cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, like courtesans And like vain semblances, when pilots sail too near it vanishes, turning that shade of blue that distance is.

Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. I cavalli normanni alle lor poste frangean la biada con rumor di croste. Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: The poplars whispered by the Salto River. The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread. Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar.

This is what she said: The man has left a little boy behind first born of eight who never handled reins. And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, heed his small hand. And heed his childlike speech, though in your heart there lies a barren beach. The gray mare turned her bony head to see my mother as she spoke so mournfully: I know you loved him, too! He would have died alone there, but for you. E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera.

Synonyms and antonyms of bipartitismo in the Italian dictionary of synonyms

Ma parlar non sai! Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. Ti voglio dire un nome. E tu fa cenno.

You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet. The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, along the whispering poplar road, you came. You bore him through the dying of the day so we might hear some last word he might say. In her pain, My mother threw her arms around that mane.

O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, you bore him home, the man who went away, who never can come home! Good though you be, you cannot others dare not speak to me. You saw the killer, yes, you know him well— who is it? Give me some signal. God will show you how. The horses were no longer champing meal; asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel. They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian trans- lation thus acting as a bridge between them.

In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator.

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In he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. His most recent books are the novel Astoria Guernica , winner of the American Book Award in , a collection of poems: What does it matter that this is a desert? The water is a form of liquidity. The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash. In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices. The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue.

Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church. The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. That water eats everything. After a few decades the graves are empty. Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves. In America it is the cities we bury. The money eats them the way water eats corpses. I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato. Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti. Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca. Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo Sheraton.

Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx. Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci. Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da quella chiesa. Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano. In theory, the different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning, that is, the basic message contained in the original text.

This section of Ital- ian Journal of Translation will test this theory by asking our readers to trans- late a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text. We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing.

For this issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano. Send your version of this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach. You may submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini. Naturalized in , he is the translator of classics of Italian of poetry into English verse, and a poet in his own right. He is the author of collections of verse in English Rind and All, ; The Fifth Season, ; Gente Mia and Other Poems, ; Collected Poems , , in Latin Carmina latina, ; Carmina latina II, , in Italian among others, Il ritorno, , and in his Gargano dialect sixteen titles between and , and of an autobiography in three volumes, La parola difficile , La parola nuova , La parola antica Note on Translation Of the two hundred and more Italian poets I rendered into English, no one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve.

Pulci, Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Its haunting musicality, in which the subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic of the Homeric hex- ameter, is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest translator utterly afraid of any attempt at a possible rendering of its enchant- ment. One thing is certain: This translation first appeared in Canadian Journal of Italian Studies: Io Fidia, primo, ed Apelle guidai con la mia lira.

Here to the valley mid the airy hills of Bellosguardo, in the quiet shade of countless youthful cypresses, where I have raised to the three Goddesses an altar surrounded by an ever-limpid stream and solemnly watched over as a shrine by fateful laurel trees where through the vine less verdant writhes, O my Canova, come: Sculptor of Deities, along with me maybe so let me hope you will soon breathe a newer life into the Graces hewn out of the marble by your hand.

I, too, breathe into phantoms an eternal soul; I loathe the line that sounds yet fails to live, for Phoebus said to me: Splendea tutto quel mar quando sostenne su la conchiglia assise e vezzeggiate dalla Diva le Grazie: Glad, the Ionian waves first welcomed them— the waves that, friendly to the beauteous sand as well as to its hospitable moss, longingly come from Cythera each day to my maternal hills where as a child the deity of Venus I adored.

To the Antenorian shores, last refuge of the household Gods of Troy and of my ancestors, will I commend my song and bones; to thee alone my thought, for with the Graces no one can converse who impiously forsakes his native land. A holy town is Zante. Most beautiful is Zante. British ships pour ample treasures on her; from the sky the timeless sun sheds its most vital rays on her alone while Jove grants lustrous clouds, wonder of olive-groves, and boundless hills teeming with vines: The whole sea shone the very day it held the three fair Graces balanced on a shell and sweetly fondled by the Goddess: Con mezze in mar le rote iva frattanto lambendo il lito la conchiglia, e al lito pur con le braccia la spingean le molli Nettunine.

Ivi per sorte vagolando fuggiasche eran venute le avventurose, e corsero ministre al viaggio di Venere. Thus a most hallowed ritual was born— libating milk out of white-rose-trimmed cups and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade while casting on the holy altar pearls with the first blossom that announces April. No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance but lengthy ululations of wild hounds resounded through the isle, with din of darts and men at fight over the vanquished bear and cries of wounded hunters in between.

In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes given her plough; in vain had she, one day, begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus, a youthful god, to soften the hard rock with gentleness of tendrils. In great ire within its narrow groove the sacred tool was left to rust while tendrils were devoured before their recent bunches stood a chance to ripen purple in the autumn sun.

Videro il cocchio e misero un ruggito, palleggiando la clava. Al petto strinse sotto al suo manto accolte, le tremanti sue giovinette, e: Ti sommergi, o selva! Venere disse, e fu sommersa. Abbellitela or voi, Grazie, che siete presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete. To Cynthia they belonged: Suddenly Iris, who views with Zephyrs in their flight, sat down as charioteer and onward aimed toward the Laconian isthmus. Cythera was not yet queen of the encircling gulf: Seeing the chariot, they wildly roared, wielding their clubs in anger.

Hence a delirious readiness to fight instinctively lies dormant in us all, which, if the pitying Graces curb it not, often rekindles and most wretchedly flaunts as its trophy but fraternal bones. Ah, these may I not see now that in Italy they bleach unburied in the golden wheat. But who, of all the Gods, could ever tame those beast-like humans? And what help had he here on this earth upon the very dawn Venus released her Graces to the World? High and horrendous is the tale of it, of which a timid echo Fame disclosed to us still groping in our native dark.

Embellish it, you Graces who were there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well. When Father Jove distributed the stars among the Gods, he kept the brightest one, gave Cytherea the fairest, and Athena the highest of them all: Ah non ti fossi irato Amor! Ma quando eri per anche delle Grazie non invido fratello Sparta fioriva. E Amicle terra di fiori non bastava ai serti delle vergini spose; dal paese venian cantando i giovani alle nozze. But with no deity, forlorn and lost the little globe of this our earth lay still with all its children born for war and prey and, after a brief season, doomed to die.

Why did you then yield, Love, to anger? If you still afflict the Graces so, how will you win my heart? To save themselves from all your might, O Love, stark-naked maidens with great toil and sweat hardened their limbs in fighting manliness. And yet, so long as envy failed to force you against the Graces, your own sisters, Sparta flourished in splendor.

Nor could Amyclae, land of wreaths, provide as many buds as there were virgin brides: Also near, Brisea lies, whence the Taygetus heard the loud-exultant clangor of the rites whereby a female chorus, strengthened by the interceding Graces, soothed Lyaeus. But where, chaste Goddesses, oh, tell me where you saw the primal altar dear to you, so that, if never shall I find its like upon this earth, I may at least feel in me the old religion of its dazzling site.

Utterly veiled, proceeding toward the lofty Dorion scanning far Arcadia, my Goddesses reached Thuria: Alpheus withdrew his waves, thus laying at their feet an easy ford that to this very day a pilgrim crosses worshiping in awe — a portent that to all the Greeks revealed the mighty sky: When their hymn ended, Cytherea shone in her unclouded deity: Shunning all human vestiges, and deaf to vulgar poets whose unskillful lyre lures them in vain, through woods they wander still, invisible and silent all of them.

Siate immortali, eternamente belle! The envious Goddess scans the unsown fields and the wide-frozen seas that steersmen shun, and at this very moment maybe treads on arms and banners through the Scythian land and on Italian still unburied braves. Cynthia, whereupon, swore timeless faith to the three Graces from that very day, ever to watch with them over the hearts of candid girls as well as candid lads. Let the Elysian Fields—should there be need— be your sole friendly haven; ever smile on bards whose laurel wreaths are purely earned, on freedom-minded princes, on young mothers who do not yield their babes to alien breasts, on naive maidens innocently thrust by hidden love on an untimely pyre; and smile on youngsters fallen for their land.

Be beautiful, and live for evermore! In tears they watched her go, and as from high above at them she waved they heard this final message: Harmony heard her come and with her joy moved the entire universe to song, for every time sweet Venus shares the bliss of her abode again, dear Harmony along the starry ways applauds the one whose tender sovereignty reshaped the world.

As a young lonesome maiden in her room, watching ecstatic in the spotless sky the splendent Moon and every silent star, feels the inspiring Deity and sits down at her harpsichord which, in her new excitement, with her feet and hands and eyes she fast attunes to the awaiting note; but, if deep in her heart Love comes to rouse remembrances of joy, her fingers run less rapid on the keyboard, causing soon the tender melody that lies concealed right at the vocal bottom of the wood to wander slow and feeble in the air: And ever since men felt within their souls an incantation, all their thoughts shone bright, and every novel thing they heard or saw in beauty grew and most delighted them if but they tried to imitate its awe.

When with the Graces all the fleeting Hours colored with varied lights the countryside, and small birds followed them with carefree sounds of rivulets and forests, mortal eyes began to copy all those happy hues and, while the ocean floor was storm-harassed or agitated by still warring Mars, looking on rills and woods, they could enjoy but painted wings and rustic scenery. Easily Art, which heeded Harmony, made matter elegant: For where you sat the Graces sat with you, and on those features, on that very face such graceful beauty their live breathing left, such gentle feelings with their gentle song did they inspire to her nakedness, instead of your true friend you recognized Venus herself within the marble core.

Impatiently this erring hymn of mine shuns the most gracious minds eager to hear; yet, my fair Sisters, I cannot depart while this my thought dictates much prouder songs. But whither shall I ever follow you if Fate has snatched you from your native Greece, and Italy, your second home, can boast but of your beauty, heedless of your might? Come, Deities, and oh, dear Goddesses, upon the earth cast your maternal tenderness again. So here in Italy the greatest minds will from Olympus draw their harmony, for, as you cannot give a greater gift, give us, O Graces, but your happy smile. Happier was Urania when the Graces adorned her lengthy peplos with their hands.

Mark the beginning of the rite, you lads, and from the garlands on the threshold strewn the uninitiated keep away. No obscene magic here, no wicked praise, no poisoned dart avails: Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice and timid offering: Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears. Lay on this altar turtle-doves along with roses and three chalices of milk, bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite invites you to the song, in silence wait: A cieca duce siete seguaci, o miseri!

Out of the restless airy strings break forth, like rays of sun by sudden tempest torn, mercy and mirth together: Ah, more than Fortune, still another God abhors sweet peace and fights the innocent. Hearing her boast, on wings ablaze the God prepares his sudden vengeance: Just as when Eurus with his joyous breath rouses the restless Larius at dawn, and soon the boatman at that murmur sings the nearing lutes rejoice, and languidly the flutes of loving lads and nymphs reply from wandering gondole: Ah voi narrate come aveste quel dono!

Oh, tell us how that gift was yours alone. Who else, O Graces, can embellish fame for us, still groping in this earthly dusk; who else but you, who were already there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well? Direzione generale per i beni librari e gli istituti culturali, De Mita stesso riprende testualmente questa distinzione puntualizzata da Pietro Scoppola in occasione del recente Giovanni Moschella, Pierangelo Grimaudo, Le analisi di Giorgio Galli, provenienti da indagini operate dall'Istituto Cattaneo di Bologna 24 , sosterranno qualche tempo dopo l'ipotesi del bipartitismo imperfetto e successivamente quella della possibile integrazione dell' opposizione Gli anni conclusivi del Novecento hanno visto l'ltalia lasciarsi definitivamente alle spalle il bipartitismo ideologico DC-PCl e le vecchie formule govemative partitocratiche, uscire dalla crisi seguita al terremoto giudiziario di Tangentopoli e Alcuni dicono che, perso tutto, non Bipartitismo , modello di bilancio, struttura finanziaria.

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