To Italy I’m yearning, to Italy’s fair land,
where smallish yellow lemons grow down along the strand,
where nightingales’ keen trilling the whole still vale is filling,
and pink shells in the moonlight lie gleaming in the sand.
To Italy I’m yearning, where hosts of palm trees grow
so tall and sweetly fragrant, their leaves of green on show,
and where, when day is fading, young men go serenading
and pluck their lutes so sweetly as stars begin to glow.
Of Italy I’m dreaming as dusk falls in our store,
where spices’ smells waft strangely midst boxes, weights and more.
I see when I am dreaming the silver waters streaming
with gondolas in thousands that ply from shore to shore.
I see, so I imagine, how in moon’s gentle light
I make the craft slink forwards through waves so clear and bright
while in the stern too present, with starlight iridescent,
a young Italian girl sits, whose voice is a delight.
Of Italy she’s singing, of Italy’s fair land
where smallish yellow lemons grow down along the strand,
where nightingales’ keen trilling the dark, still vale is filling,
while far behind Vesuvius sinks down the sun’s red band.
To hear Ingvar Wixell sing the original, go to here
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