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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506796" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Thoreau in Italy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lingo of birds was easier than lingo of peasants-<br>they were elusive, though, the birds, for excellent reasons.<br>He thought of Virgil, Virgil who wasn't there to chat with.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">History he never forgave for letting Latin<br>lapse into Italian, a renegade jabbering<br>musical enough but not enough to call music</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So he conversed with stones, imperial and papal.<br>Even the preposterous popes he could condone<br>a moment for the clean arrogance of their inscriptions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He asked the Italians only to leave him in the past<br>alone, but this was what they emphatically never did.<br>Being the present, they never ceased to celebrate it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Something was always brushing him on the street, satyr<br>or saint-impossible to say which the more foreign.<br>At home he was called touchy; here he knew he was.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Impossible to say. The dazzling nude with sex<br>lovingly displayed like carven fruit, the black<br>robe sweeping a holy and unholy dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Always the flesh whether to lacerate of kiss-<br>Conspiracy of fauns and clerics smiling back<br>and forth at each other acquiescently through leaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Caught between wan monastic mountains wearing the tonsure<br>and the all-siren, ever-dimpling sea, he saw<br>(how could he fail?) at heart geography to blame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So home to Concord where (as he might have known he would)<br>he found the Italy he wanted to remember.<br>Why had he sailed if not for the savour of returning?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An Italy distilled of all extreme, conflict,<br>Collusion-an Italy without the Italians-<br>in whose green context he could con again his Virgil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In cedar he read cypress, in the wild apple, olive.<br>His hills would stand up favorably to the hills of Rome.<br>His arrowheads could hold their own with are Etruscan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Walden clearly was his Mediterranean<br>whose infinite colors were his picture gallery.<br>How far his little boat transported him-how far.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He coughed discreetly and we likewise coughed;<br>we waited and we heard him clear his throat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How to be perfect prisoners of the past<br>this was the thing but now he too is past.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shall we go sit beside the Mississippi<br>and watch the riffraft driftwood floating by?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Francis">Robert Francis</a><div class=q>
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they were elusive, though, the birds, for excellent reasons.
He thought of Virgil, Virgil who wasn't there to chat with.

History he never forgave for letting Latin
lapse into Italian, a renegade j..."></div>
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