Oh Ponte Molle, you splendid bridge,
Near which I have quaffed many a noble draught
   From a bottle in braided straw,
On Ponte Molle, what is it with you?
As a solitary drinker I sit here,
   I hardly want to sip my wine.

Oh Ponte Molle, it was odd today,
The sweet, faded-away time of youth
   And the old love returned,
A hot sirocco wind blows through the land,
In my heart blazes the old fire;
   It stirs within me as of songs and poems.

Oh Tiber River, oh St. Peter’s Cathedral!
Oh you entire, grand, all-powerful Rome!
   All of you can go hang as far as I’m concerned.
Wherever my erratic travels have taken me,
The quiet, fair beloved of the Black Forest
   Remains the most beautiful thing on earth.

Oh Ponte Molle, -- how beautiful she was!
And should I have to gaze upon many thousands of women yet,
   I would always praise just the One.
And if she came along the way just now,
You yourself, you solid structure of squared stones,
   Would find yourself trembling in your very marrow.

But for naught is the longing, for naught the suffering.
The sun is too burning hot, the way too long
   And flight has not yet been invented.
Padrone, bring another bottle!
Even a sad man might savour
   The pearly Orvieto wine.

Oh Ponte Molle, you splendid bridge,
I believe you are repaying me with evil spooks
   For having become lost in my dream!
Dust is rising on the military road;
Now a mass of oxen and buffalos are blocking
   My homeward way to the gates of Rome!