Oil with wise art squeezed
From pure fruit of the old olive trees,
That sing -peace! -in their language mute
from the Umbrian hills for lonely hillsides,
Clear much more liquid than crystal,
Fragrant which oriental ointment,
Pure as faith than in metal
Concave burns you on the altar of silver,
Your rare virtues were not unknown
At the tables of Horace and Varro
That didn’t disdain sing you in their notes…
Gabriele D’Annunzio
(custom word-by-word translation – All Rights Reserved -)