Those tangled dolphins on their tails sustain
A mollusc shell agape; Triton stands there,
He blows into a giant snail; no strident strain,
It radiates and pierces the blue air.

How green from moss the daemon god’s plicature
Amid hot slabs entreating clouds of pine!
The chisel’s ancient dream resembles nature
In frenzied spontaneity of line.

Bernini—ours anew—your playful skill
Makes me rejoice as from Four Fountains’ knoll
I wander to the Pincio, memory’s hill,
Where Ivanov to Gogol’s cell would stroll,

Where Piranesi’s fiery needle heightens
Rome’s sadness and her masonry of Titans.