Chapter XI

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown,
Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down,
From bottles in wicker-work braided.
Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause
That I between my glasses now pause,
Can hardly to drink be persuaded?

Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth,
That the lovely days of my vanished youth
And love's old dream are recurring.
Through the land the hot sirocco blows,
And within my heart the old flame glows,
Sweet music within me is stirring.

Oh Tiber-stream, oh St. Peter's dome,
Oh thou all-powerful ancient Rome,
Naught care I for all thou containest.
Where'er in my restless wanderings I rove,
My gentle and lovely Schwarzwald-love,
The fairest on earth thou remainest!

Oh Ponte Molle, how lovely was she!
And if I thousands of girls should see,
To love but the one I am willing.
And if ever thy solid pile should bear
The weight of her footsteps, I will swear,
Even thy cold frame would be thrilling.

But useless the longing and useless the woe,
The sun is too ardent so far to go,
And flying is not yet invented.
Padrone, another bottle of wine!
This Orvieto so pearly and fine
Makes even a sad heart contented.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown,
Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down
For my love-sick and dreamy talking?
A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky,
A herd of oxen now passing by
Blocks up the way I am walking.