On my monument, amidst laurels and pikes
Stranger, on the bed of my last sleep,
A sculptor of stone has engraved the sun,
And the golden cicala and the peacock Olympic.

I have sung of heroes, of the dead, of epic scenes,
Of holy Hellas the impassible awakening,
And, with eyes dazzled by rosy remembrance,
I have sung your purple walls, O Tropical Gulfs.

And there is my tomb. Peace of the native earth,
Perfumes, splendour of the Oriental dream
Will not have encircled my exiled remains;

But the austere life is the glorous death.
I have clothed my desires in a wingèd armour
And have given their soul and their power to the Gods!