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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343753" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls <br>In quiet shafts of light through the high trees <br>Which, arching, make a roof above the walls <br>Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze <br>Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight <br>Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer <br>Of vague romance, and time's long history; <br>Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white, <br>Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere <br>Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What sound is that which echoes through the wood? <br>Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe? <br>Perchance a minute more will see the brood <br>Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip <br>Will rest the rushes he is wont to play. <br>His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit <br>And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns, <br>So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway <br>As they the measure tread to the lilting flute. <br>Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun. <br>How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange! <br>Surely 't was here some tragedy was done, <br>And here the chorus sang each coming change? <br>Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood, <br>These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark; <br>That is no thrush which sings so rapturously, <br>But the nightingale in his most passionate mood <br>Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark! <br>The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The silence almost is a sound, and dreams <br>Take on the semblances of finite things; <br>So potent is the spell that what but seems <br>Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings. <br>The little woodland theatre seems to wait, <br>All tremulous with hope and wistful joy, <br>For something that is sure to come at last, <br>Some deep emotion, satisfying, great. <br>It grows a living presence, bold and shy, <br>Cradling the future in a glorious past.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343753" data-title="Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H. de Amy Lowell" data-description="How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls 
In quiet shafts of light through the high trees 
Which, arching, make a roof above the walls 
Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze 
Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight 
Of an Italian th..."></div>
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