I know nothing of wisteria, or glicini (in the Italian), other than what I've seen since moving to Venice, where they strike me as the most Keatsian of flowers: their decline following almost instantaneously upon their maturity. In this way, I suppose, there's something rather melancholy about them, as in the lines from "Ode on Melancholy:"
She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;Something rather decadent about them, too, and therefore perfect for a city identified with decadence for over 200 years, and long, it seems, in the last stages of over-ripeness. But Venice has maintained its long decline since the 1700s, while wisteria like those above (photographed on Friday) are pretty much blown in a weekend.
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee mouth sips...