Saturday Evening in the Village

Jules Breton, "The Shepherd’s Star"

Saturday Evening in the Village

The young girl now comes back from the open fields,

About the set of sun,

Bearing her swathe of grass, and in her hand

A bunch of roses and of violets,

As is her custom, for

Tomorrow's holiday,

To make more beautiful her breast and hair.

And the old woman sits

Upon the steps among her neighbors, spinning.

Turning herself to where the day goes down,

And telling tales of how she, in better times,

Decked herself out against the holiday,

And graceful still, and fresh,

Would dance the evening through among the rest,

Who were companions of her lovely prime.

Darkens the air, the sky

Takes on a deeper blue, and shadows fall

Cast by the roofs and hills

Beneath the whiteness of the rising moon.

And now the bell proclaims

The holy day's approach,

And at that sound, it seems,

Each heart is cheered once more.

The small boys shouting in troops

About the village square

Go leaping hither and thither

And make a cheerful noise;

Meanwhile the laborer goes whistling home,

Back to his frugal meal,

And thinks about the coming day of rest.

When every other light is out,

All other sound is mute, 

Hark to the hammer knocking, and the saw -

The carpenter is up,

Working by lamplight in his shuttered shop,

And labors on, in haste

To get all finished before morning comes.

This is the best-loved day of all the week,

Most full of hope and joy;

The morrow will bring back

Sadness and tedium, and each with his thought

Returns once more to find his usual labor.

You little playful boy,

Even this your flowering time

Is like a day filled up with grace and joy -

A clear, calm day that comes

As a precursor to life's festival.

Be happy, little boy;

A joyful time is this.

More I'd not tell you, but if your holiday

Seems somewhat tardy yet, let that not grieve you.

Giacomo Leopardi (translated by John Heath-Stubbs)

I love how this poem slips from person to person - the young woman hopeful, the old woman reminiscent, the small boys playing, the labourer looking forward to rest, the carpenter working through the night - all these an overview of every stage in life - until at last Leopardi addresses the young boy with all of it still ahead of him. And its not just the changing seasons of life, but the gradual movement of time, from early evening to night and straight on through to the next day. The tiredness after a long week of work blending into a day of rest. It reminds me of Ecclesiastes 3 - "A time for everything, and everything in its time..." Lovely. And somehow wistful. There is hopeful expectation, memories of better times, and a warning not to be impatient for more. Something about this poem wraps its fingers around my heart.