ise,
To his inner self earnestly turning.

VI.

Lovely month of May, how hateful
To a cat you are, and dreary
Ne'er I thought such din of music
Could a cat's heart make so weary.

From the branches, from the bushes
Birds their warbling notes are ringing;
Far and wide, as if for money,
Men I hear forever singing.

There the cook sings in the kitchen--
Is love also her head turning?
In falsetto she now screameth,
That with rage my soul is burning.

Farther upward will I clamber,
To the terrace slowly wending.
Woe to me, for from the garden
Are my neighbour's songs ascending.

Even next the roof I cannot
Find the rest for which I'm pining;
Near me dwells a crazy poet,
His own verses ever whining.

When despairing to the cellar
Down I rush the noise escaping;
Ah, above me they are dancing,
To the pipes, and fiddles' scraping.

Harmless tribe! Your lyric madness
You'll continue, while there yonder,
In the East, the clouds are gathering,
Soon to burst in tragic thunder.

VII.

May has come now. To the thinker,
Who the causes of phenomena
Searches, 'tis a natural sequence:
In the centre of creation
Are two aged white cats standing,
Who the world turn on its axis;
And their labour there produces
The recurring change of seasons.

But why is it in the May month
That my eyes are ever ogling,
That my heart is so impassioned?
And why is it that I daily
Must be leering sixteen hours
From the terrace, as if nailed there,
At the fair cat Apollonia,
At the black-haired Jewess Rachel?

VIII.

A strong bulwark 'gainst enticements
I have built on good foundations;
But to the most virtuous even
Sometimes come unsought temptations.

And more ardent than in youth's time,
The old dream comes o'er me stealing;
I on memory's pinions soar up,
Filled with burning amorous feeling.

Oh fair Naples, land of beauty,
With thy nectar-cup thou cheerest!
To Sorrento I'd be flying.
To a roof to me the dearest.

Old Vesuvius and the white sails