"Valentino" di Giovanni Pascoli ~ Ital Florist

In their childhood, my parents learned this beautiful poem about a small peasant boy, his new suit and his bare feet. From time to time, especially during the Valentine's Day rush, my father would randomly begin to recite this poem. I was reminded about it recently and asked Dad about it.
The poem by Giovanni Pascoli is certainly bitter sweet and I wanted to share it with all of you. I hope you enjoy it. The English translation follows the original Italian.

~Happy Valentine's Day to you and your loved ones

"Valentino” di Giovanni Pascoli

Oh! Valentino vestito di nuovo,
come le brocche dei biancospini!
Solo, ai piedini provati dal rovo
porti la pelle de’ tuoi piedini;
porti le scarpe che mamma ti fece,
che non mutasti mai da quel dì,
che non costarono un picciolo: in vece
costa il vestito che ti cucì.
Costa; ché mamma già tutto ci spese
quel tintinnante salvadanaio:
ora esso è vuoto; e cantò più d’un mese
per riempirlo, tutto il pollaio.
Pensa, a gennaio, che il fuoco del ciocco
non ti bastava, tremavi, ahimè!,
e le galline cantavano, Un cocco!
ecco ecco un cocco un cocco per te!
Poi, le galline chiocciarono, e venne
marzo, e tu, magro contadinello,
restasti a mezzo, così con le penne,
ma nudi i piedi, come un uccello:
come l’uccello venuto dal mare,
che tra il ciliegio salta, e non sa
ch’oltre il beccare, il cantare, l’amare,
ci sia qualch’altra felicità
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Oh! Valentino clothed anew,
like the blossoms of the hawthorns!
Just, your little feet tried by the brambles
you wear the skin of your little feet;
you wear the shoes mother made you,
that you haven’t changed from that day,
that didn’t cost a penny: but
the suit she made for you is expensive.
It’s expensive: mother already spent
that jingling moneybox:
now it’s empty: and for more than a month,
the whole poultry pen sang to fill it.
Remember January, when the burning log
wasn’t enough for you, you were shivering, pity me!
and the hens were singing: An egg!
here here an egg, an egg for you!
Then, the hens brooded, and March arrived,
and you, thin little peasant
remained half finished, with plumage,
but barefooted, just like a bird:
like the bird come from the sea,
which hops around the cherry tree, and doesn’t know
that besides pecking, singing, loving,
there could be another happiness.