from Leopardi

As soon as the sun has set, that young woman 
           Returning from the fields, the one who goes 
To the festival every Sunday, has already picked 
           The handful of flowers she'll wear tomorrow, 
And carries them home with a bundle of kindling. Now 
           That the day is over she has the violets 
She needs to arrange her hair, and the roses to match 
           Her dress, the dress that she'll wear tomorrow.
Sitting on the steps of her house, the old woman 
           Facing the dusk picks up a thread 
Of her neighbor's conversation and turns all their talk 
           About tomorrow to the way it was 
In her day, and the dresses she wore, and all the men 
           That were mad about her; the old woman 
Spinning her yarns about how light she was 
           On her feet, her face radiant at dusk.
Already the darkness is filling the air we breathe;
           Already the sky is no longer azure;
Now the hills are shadowed by the slopes of evening;
           Now the new moon is just beginning 
To turn the rooftops white, as if the houses 
           Were marked with chalk; and now and again 
The mouth of a clanging bell is telling us something 
           We already know: tomorrow is Sunday.
Still, when church bells ring the heart can't help 
           Feeling a lift as the little children
Swarm the little piazza, shouting on the run 
           As if they were heralds of leaping joy.
And even the farmer whistling to himself 
           As the bells chime with the end of his day 
In the fields, couldn't look any happier, relishing what's left 
           Of those scraps he'll call supper when he gets home.
Sunday, the day of rest, cannot come fast 
           Enough for the laborer, though it'll be over 
Before he knows it. And now the lights of the houses 
           Have all gone out, and the whole village 
Is in the dark, not a murmur out of anyone—
           Except for the rasping sound of a saw 
That works as they sleep, or the hammer blow that wakes 
           The startled heart to its own pounding.
Which means the carpenter cannot yet afford 
           To call it a day unless he has finished 
One more job, polishing the grain of the wood 
           Until it gleams without a trace 
Of the sweat and blood it cost him; and dreading the light 
           That shines through the cracks when Sunday dawns 
On his shuttered windows, just as the dimming lantern 
           Tells him it's time to close up shop.
Seven days of the week and only one 
           That everyone always looks forward to 
With a genuine sigh of relief. But when Sunday 
           Finally arrives the mind is already 
Drained by the usual concerns of the coming week, 
           As if weariness and worry were the only 
Outcomes we can always count on. Seven days, 
           And this happiness that never stays
Longer than the little while it spends with us 
           On Saturday evening. . . Little boy 
So full of joy, so like this hour, so like 
           A flower whose blossom can bloom no further:
Do you know that the richest feast of your life is spread
           Before your eyes like clear, blue skies 
To an open bud? Enjoy it to the hilt, 
           Because this is your moment of ultimate bliss.
About what happens next, I'd rather not say. 
           But don't lose any sleep, my little friend, 
Waiting for that festival they celebrate on Sunday.