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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=351274" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Nostalgia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.<br>You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,<br>and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,<br>the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.<br>Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,<br>and at night we would play a game called &quot;Find the Cow.&quot;<br>Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet<br>marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags<br>of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.<br>Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle<br>while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.<br>We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.<br>These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.<br>People would take walks to the very tops of hills<br>and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.<br>Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.<br>We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.<br>It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.<br>Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.<br>And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,<br>time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,<br>or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me<br>recapture the serenity of last month when we picked<br>berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.<br>I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees<br>and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light<br>flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse<br>and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,<br>letting my memory rush over them like water<br>rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.<br>I was even thinking a little about the future, that place<br>where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,<br>a dance whose name we can only guess.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Billy+Collins">Billy Collins</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=351274" data-title="Nostalgia de Billy Collins" data-description="Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would p..."></div>
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