I will ask bristling centaury to translate

XIV

The fell, through brimming heat-haze, ashen gray,
in a few hours changes to graphite, coral,
rare Libyan sand color or banded spectrum.
Distant flocks merge into limestone’s half-light.
The full moon, now, rears with unhastening speed,
sketches the black ridge-end, slides thin luster
downward aslant its gouged and watered scree.
Awe is not peace, not one of the sacred
duties in meditation. Memory
finds substance in itself. Whatever’s brought,
one to the other, masking and unmasking,
by each particular shift of clarity
wrought and obscurely broken-in upon,
of serene witness, neither mine nor yours,
I will ask bristling centaury to translate.
Saved by immersion, sleep, forgetfulness,
the tinctured willow and frail-textured ash,
untrodden fern-sheaves, a raw-horned oak,
the wavering argents in the darkened river.
Later again, far higher on the fell,
a solitary lamp, notturna lampa,
night’s focus focusing, LEOPARDI saw,
himself a stranger, once, returning late,
from some forsaken village festival.

Geoffrey Hill, The Orchards of Syon