Last flower of Latium, wild, uncultured beaty,
You are at once both splendor and the grave:
You're gold which, in the gang's impurity,
Doth veil a giant mine in graveled lave.
I love you thus, unknown, obscure and hidden,
A blaring trumpet, lyre of singleness,
Tour fury's like the sea that's tempest ridden,
Your lullaby's of love and tenderness!
I love your lush green woods and perfumes, wrung
From virgin jungles and expansive sea!
I love you, rude and sorrowful native tongue,
In which my mother called: "Dear son of mine!"
In which Camões bemoaned, grieved exile he,
His luckless genius and love's tarnished shine!
Olavo Bilac (1865-1918)