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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409026" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Map of Verona</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quelle belle heure, quels bons bras<br>me rendront ces régions d'où mes<br>sommeils et mes moindres mouvements?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A map of Verona is open, the small strange city;<br>With its river running round and through, it is river-embraced,<br>And over this city for a whole long winter season,<br>Through streets on a map, my thoughts have hovered and paced.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Across the river there is a wandering suburb,<br>An unsolved smile on a now familiar mouth;<br>Some enchantments of earlier towns are about you:<br>Once I was drawn to Naples in the south.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Naples I know now, street and hovel and garden,<br>The look of the islands from the avenue,<br>Capri and Ischia, like approaching drum-beats—<br>My youthful Naples, how I remember you!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You were an early chapter, a practice in sorrow,<br>Your shadows fell, but were only a token of pain,<br>A sketch in tenderness, lust, and sudden parting,<br>And I shall not need to trouble with you again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I remember, once your map lay open,<br>As now Verona's under the still lamp-light.<br>I thought, are these the streets to walk in the mornings,<br>Are these the gardens to linger in at night?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all was useless that I thought I learned:<br>Maps are of place, not time, nor can they say<br>The surprising height and colour of a building,<br>Nor where the groups of people bar the way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is strange to remember those thoughts and try to catch<br>The underground whispers of music beneath the years,<br>The forgotten conjectures, the clouded, forgotten vision,<br>Which only in vanishing phrases reappears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Again, it is strange to lead a conversation<br>Round to a name, to a cautious questioning<br>Of travellers, who talk of Juliet's tomb and fountains<br>And a shining smile of snowfall, late in Spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Their memories calm this winter of expectation,<br>Their talk restrains me, for I cannot flow<br>Like your impetuous river to embrace you;<br>Yet you are there, and one day I shall go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The train will bring me perhaps in utter darkness<br>And drop me where you are blooming, unaware<br>That a stranger has entered your gates, and a new devotion<br>Is about to attend and haunt you everywhere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The flutes are warm: in tomorrow's cave the music<br>Trembles and forms inside the musician's mind,<br>The lights begin, and the shifting crowds in the causeways<br>Are discerned through the dusk, and the rolling river behind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in what hour of beauty, in what good arms,<br>Shall I those regions and that city attain<br>From whence my dreams and slightest movements rise?<br>And what good Arms shall take them away again?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Reed">Henry Reed</a><div class=q>
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me rendront ces régions d'où mes
sommeils et mes moindres mouvements?


A map of Verona is open, the small strange city;
With its river running round and through, it is river-embraced,
And over this city for a..."></div>
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