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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381374" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pasa Thalassa Thalassa</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">“The sea is everywhere the sea.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone—faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember? <br>Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign. <br>Gone with his hard red face that only his laughter could wrinkle, <br>Down where men go to be still, by the old way of the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Never again will he come, with rings in his ears like a pirate, <br>Back to be living and seen, here with his roses and vines; <br>Here where the tenants are shadows and echoes of years uneventful, <br>Memory meets the event, told from afar by the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Smoke that floated and rolled in the twilight away from the chimney <br>Floats and rolls no more. Wheeling and falling, instead, <br>Down with a twittering flash go the smooth and inscrutable swallows, <br>Down to the place made theirs by the cold work of the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Roses have had their day, and the dusk is on yarrow and wormwood— <br>Dusk that is over the grass, drenched with memorial dew; <br>Trellises lie like bones in a ruin that once was a garden,<br>Swallows have lingered and ceased, shadows and echoes are all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where is he lying to-night, as I turn away down to the valley, <br>Down where the lamps of men tell me the streets are alive? <br>Where shall I ask, and of whom, in the town or on land or on water, <br>News of a time and a place buried alike and with him?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Few now remain who may care, nor may they be wiser for caring, <br>Where or what manner the doom, whether by day or by night; <br>Whether in Indian deeps or on flood-laden fields of Atlantis, <br>Or by the roaring Horn, shrouded in silence he lies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage,<br>Drawn by the scene as it was—met by the chill and the change; <br>Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember, <br>More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Where is he lying?” I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer; <br>Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men.<br>Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another— <br>Down where he lies to-night, silent, and under the storms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edwin+Arlington+Robinson">Edwin Arlington Robinson</a><div class=q>
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Gone—faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember? 
Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign. 
Gone with his hard red face that only his laughter could wrinkle, 
Down where men go ..."></div>
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