HERE the Northern pine-trees sing, And the crystal torrents spring, In a warm and dainty nest, Dwells the maid that I love best,— Born, as is the Alpine rose, Blooming in the midst of snows. Yet, so much she seems to me Like a dream of Italy,— Beautiful, serene, and calm, Opulent with bloom and balm,— That my heart leaps up to greet her, Vita della mia vita!
Ah, carina! in thine eyes What miraculous meaning lies! Ah, what depths of rare romance Charm me in their eloquent glance,— Full of wonderful witcheries, Shadowy, mournful, tender eyes,— Yet their mellow midnight seems Softly starred with silver dreams; Fairest eyes on earth they be, Marvellous eyes of Italy;— Eyes which make the hours go fleeter, Vita della mia vita!
Dreaming, oft again I dwell In the land I love so well,— Where the fruited vineyards lie Smiling at the smiling sky,— And among the graceful shapes Gathering the clustered grapes, Eccolo! she parts the vines, And a golden arrow shines Tipped with sunlight, in the rare Purple blackness of her hair,— How my glad heart springs to meet her, Vita della mia vita!
Ah, no lovelier maid, I ween, Roams by Tiber's mellow sheen, Or, with lingering footsteps, strays, Where the fount of Trevi plays, Or, with heart devoid of ill, Muses on the Pincian Hill, Listening to the clear farewells Of the silvery sunset-bells, While the roses, one and all, Nodding from the ivied wall Blush to find her fair face sweeter,— Vita della mia vita!
HERE the Northern pine-trees sing, 
HERE the Northern pine-trees sing, 