En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In The Old Theatre, Fiesole.

I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.

She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.

For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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In the Old Theatre, Fiesole (April, 1887)

I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.

She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.

For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Roman Gravemounds

By Rome's dim relics there walks a man,
Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.

'Vast was Rome,' he must muse, 'in the worlds regard,
Vast it looms there still, Vast it ever will be;'
And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard
Left by those who are held in such memory.

But no; in his basket, see, he has brought
A little white furred thing, stiff of limb,
Whose life never won from the world a thought;
It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.

And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,
And he delves in the ancient dead's long home;
Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not;
The furred thing is all to him - nothing Rome!

'Here say you that Caesar's warriors lie? -
But my little white cat was my only friend!
Could she but live, might the record die
Of Caesar, his legions, his aims, his end!'

Well, Rome's long rule here is oft and again
A theme for the sages of history,
And the small furred life was worth no one's pen;
Yet its mourner's mood has a charm for me.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Rome

O thou newcomer who seek’st Rome in Rome
And find’st in Rome no thing thou canst call Roman;
Arches worn old and palaces made common
Rome’s name alone within these walls keeps home.

Behold how pride and ruin can befall
One who hath set the whole world ’neath her laws,
All-conquering, now conquered, because
She is Time’s prey, and Time conquereth all.

Rome that art Rome’s one sole last monument,
Rome that alone hast conquered Rome the town,
Tiber alone, transient and seaward bent,

Remains of Rome. O world, thou unconstant mime!
That which stands firm in thee Time batters down,
And that which fleeteth doth outrun swift Time.

poem by Ezra Pound
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North Atlantic Drift

Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Its a cultural shift its the North Atlantic Drift
Americana and a rule Britannia
And the moon yes we own that to
And where the Euphrates meets the other rivers
Is now the home of the devil and the liar
And the pyre we plan to make
Is just the drift leaving its wake, home
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
And the films you want to watch
And the films you want to make
And the kids like lost angels
Dressed in black sensations
And the shift won? shake
And the drift won? brake
With billions of Diamonds growing like olives
And the drift holds the coffers
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns

song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At A House In Hampstead Sometime The Dwelling Of John Keats

O poet, come you haunting here
Where streets have stolen up all around,
And never a nightingale pours one
Full-throated sound?

Drawn from your drowse by the Seven famed Hills,
Thought you to find all just the same
Here shining, as in hours of old,
If you but came?

What will you do in your surprise
At seeing that changes wrought in Rome
Are wrought yet more on the misty slope
One time your home?

Will you wake wind-wafts on these stairs?
Swing the doors open noisily?
Show as an umbraged ghost beside
Your ancient tree?

Or will you, softening, the while
You further and yet further look,
Learn that a laggard few would fain
Preserve your nook? . . .

-Where the Piazza steps incline,
And catch late light at eventide,
I once stood, in that Rome, and thought,
''Twas here he died.'

I drew to a violet-sprinkled spot,
Where day and night a pyramid keeps
Uplifted its white hand, and said,
''Tis there he sleeps.'

Pleasanter now it is to hold
That here, where sang he, more of him
Remains than where he, tuneless, cold,
Passed to the dim.

July 1920

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Cleopatra’s glory

Cleopatra was the queen of Egypt;
Cleopatra was the queen of beauty.
She came to the throne at her eighteen
The first century BC witnessed it.

To get back her Egypt from her brother,
She sought the hand of Julius Caesar,
The mighty one Rome had ever seen,
And set to sell her asset of beauty.

While in exile, she was able to reach
Caesar when he chanced to visit Egypt,
By getting her smuggled in to his room,
Rolled up in a carpet sent as a gift

Cleopatra emerging from the roll,
Caesar was stunned and fell for her in love.
He made her queen of Egypt in no time
And made her his consort with all respects.

Bound by her charm, grace and wit together,
Caesar clued to her and bore her a son.
He brought her home to be adored by Rome.
They led a life, each proud of the other.

The rise of Caesar was the cause of his fall.
His rise in power and love for Egypt
Were good enough for his conspirators
To rise and annihilate him unaware.

Cleopatra with her son fled to Egypt
And Mark Antony succeeded the throne.
No wonder, her beauty arrested him.
No wonder, his valour imprisioned her.

.The Rome emperor and the Egyptian queen
Loved, like of which no pair ever did.
The spring sprang, love spurted, and the passion flowed.
She was all and she was the world for him.

He took to Egypt and slept with the queen.
His rivals from Rome used his weakness
And invaded the Egyptian sea.
War broke; Antony woke and fought but lost.

The majestic queen became the captive.
False news spread that she was killed. Shocked,
Antony killed himself with the sword he wore.
She saught to burry him with state honour.

She heard she would be taken to Rome,
To be chained and drawn in Rome she adorned.
Romans took care that she killed not herself
And so kept her ss safe amidst water.

She had serpents brought in the fruit basket
And had them sting her to join her lover.
She loved Caesar and lived a royal wife.
She loved Antony and lived a loyal wife.

A woman can love as much in succession.
Widowhood is not an impediment
And the land after the harvest is not waste.
Cleopatra is a perfect example.

‘Age cannot wither her, not custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies.’ Shakespeare

01.04.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it

Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it.
We see images of its civic might
In the clear air, as in the sky-blue circus,
In the forum of fields, the colonnade of the grove.

Nature is the same as Rome, again it seems
We have no reason to trouble the gods.
We've got the viscera of the sacrifices
To tell the fortunes of war, and slaves
To keep the silence, and stones with which to build.

poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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We cannot afford more of this modern day Rome

Being positive, transcendent while neglecting your emotional pain, being blind to it while unconsciously projecting your hurts into others, will still cause you to succeed materially, you will still obtain your abundance, your vast wealth, Rome, The Roman Empire is a good example, you will have your desires, but at a dehumanizing cost.

We cannot afford more of this modern day Rome. Now Rome can not only destroy itself but all life. Then what, will we get a free ride on another planet. We are just going to be so welcome and simply fit in after our self-destruction. Are we that arrogant where we think we will not have to start over from dust?

poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Roman Elegies I

Tell me you stones, O speak, you towering palaces!
Streets, say a word! Spirit of this place, are you dumb?
All things are alive in your sacred walls
eternal Rome, only for me all’s still.
Who will whisper to me, at what window
will I see the sweet thing who will kindle me, and quicken?
Already I guess the ways, walking to her and from her,
ever and always I’ll go, while sweet time slips by.
I’m gazing at church and palace, ruin and column,
like a serious man making sensible use of a journey,
but soon it will happen, and all will be one vast temple,
Love’s temple, receiving its new initiate.
Though you are a whole world, Rome, still, without Love,
the world’s not the world, Rome cannot be Rome.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Caesar

Pop/schermerhorn
People of america
I bring you a great army
To preserve peace
In our empire
Throw them to the lions
Darling, let us go to the banouet hall...
There will be a great feast tonight!
Who are these christians?
What is this strange religion?
I ve heard it said they turn the other cheek
Ha ha ha ha
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Thumbs down
10 pieces of gold for every man
Hail caesar hail caesar
Grapes from sicily
Silks from asia minor
All the tea in china
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Who are these christians?
Turn the other cheek...
Ha ha ha ha ha
Two thumbs down
The christians are restless
Why not let them worship their god?
No one believes in the old gods
How tiresome...attending the rituals
Paying lip service to the portents
Burning incense at their shrine
No one believes in the old gods
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Throw them to the lions
Hahahahahaha
The roman empire the glory of rome
Hail all hail
Caesar...caesar...beware beware the ides of march
Who is this man?
Caesar...he is but a soothsayer...he is old
And his brain is addled... pay him no mind!
Throw him to the lions! ha ha ha ha ha ha
Hail caesar! emperor of rome hail caesar!
Caesar...caesar...beware the ides of march
Eh? ! who is this man?
Caesar...he is but an old soothsayer...addled in his brain
Pay him no mind
Throw him to the lions! ha ha ha ha
Throw him to the lions!
No one believes in the old gods...
The empire is tired...caesar will rest now.
We depart for my chambers
Come darling
Yes caesar
Caesar will rest now
Hail rome hail caesar hail
Put him in the fiery pit
Ha ha ha ha!

song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rimini

Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire

When I left Rome for Lalage's sake,
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini--
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini--)
And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage--
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,
And I've lost Rome and, worst of all,
I've lost Lalage!

When you go by the Via Aurelia
As thousands have traveled before
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh, dear was the sweetheart that kissed him,
And dear was the mother that bore;
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
And he never saw Rome any more!

And he left Rome, etc.

When you go by the Via Aurelia
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Caesar,
And he rose to be master of all!

And he left Rome, etc.

It's twenty-five marches to Narbo,
It's forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on an Emperor's throne.
But whether the Eagles obey us,
Or we go to the Ravens--alone,
I'd sooner be Lalage's lover
Than sit on an Emperor's throne!

We've all left Rome for Lalage's sake, etc.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Roman Girl's Song

Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen–
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With colour'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,
Sweeps thro' the arches dim,
Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXVI

The majesty of Rome to me is nought;
The imperial story of her conquering car
Touches me only with compassionate thought
For the doomed nations faded by her star.
Her palaces of Caesars tombstones are
For a whole world of freedoms vainly caught
In her high fortune. Throned was she in war;
By war she perished. So is justice wrought.
A nobler Rome is here, which shall not die.
She rose from the dead ashes of men's lust,
And robed herself anew in chastity,
And half redeemed man's heritage of dust.
This Rome I fain would love, though darkly hid
In mists of passion and desires scarce dead.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too

Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And tit leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.

When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.

There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.

Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.

So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

poem by Ogden Nash
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A Coin Of Little Worth

I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome

these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile

but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule

my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth

that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago

My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than

all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage

from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of

law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart

it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped

money into the treasury chests;

many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two

small coins which had very little value;

these coins became known as the widow's mite.

Jesus called his disciples and said to them

"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they

all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.

For the love of God.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Epitaph To Rome

If midst Rome you wish to see Rome, pilgrim,
Tho in Rome naught of Rome might you see,
Behold the walls' ring, the theatres, temples
And ruptured pillars, to rubble all turned,
Rome be these! Mark how the corpse of a city
So strong still past fortune's pomp exudes;
Subduing a world, herself the city subdued
Lest yet more to subdue might there be.
Today in broken Rome, Rome unbroken
(A substance in its shadow) lies entombed.
Within all's changed; alone past change
Tiber remains, that to sea runs mixed with sand.
See what Fortune plays: 'tis wasted away,
What was unmoving; what moved, yet remains.

poem by Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski
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Spanish Steps Of Rome

The first time I saw her
She was wearing scarves of white
That little spark between us
Took only seconds to ignite
And then it occured to me
Suddenly I was standing there alone
On the spanish steps of rome
I kept searching through the ally
Searching through the catacombe that night
I closed my eyes and threw a coin in the fountain
Then I looked and she was nowhere in sight
I wandered through the holy city
Like a beggar beneath the moon lit dome
Near the spanish steps of rome
I heard a voice as I looked through my fingers
And saw the old monsignor
He gave me his blessing and said
Dont try and please her
And then I heard her singing like some diva
Perched upon her throne
On the spanish steps of rome
Now I know I should have listened
When he warned me not to follow
I noticed that the statues eyes
Were all sunken and hollow
She let those young wolves do the dirty deeds
While she lay there inside her home
On the spanish steps of rome

song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marcus Varro

Marcus Varro went up and down
The places where old books were sold;
He ransacked all the shops in town
For pictures new and pictures old.
He gave the folk of earth no peace;
Snooping around by day and night,
He plied the trade in Rome and Greece
Of an insatiate Grangerite.

'Pictures!' was evermore his cry --
'Pictures of old or recent date,'
And pictures only would he buy
Wherewith to 'extra-illustrate.'
Full many a tome of ancient type
And many a manuscript he took,
For nary purpose but to swipe
Their pictures for some other book.

While Marcus Varro plied his fad
There was not in the shops of Greece
A book or pamphlet to be had
That was not minus frontispiece.
Nor did he hesitate to ply
His baleful practices at home;
It was not possible to buy
A perfect book in all of Rome!

What must the other folk have done --
Who, glancing o'er the books they bought,
Came soon and suddenly upon
The vandalism Varro wrought!
How must their cheeks have flamed with red --
How did their hearts with choler beat!
We can imagine what they said --
We can imagine, not repeat!

Where are the books that Varro made --
The pride of dilettante Rome --
With divers portraitures inlaid
Swiped from so many another tome?
The worms devoured them long ago --
O wretched worms! ye should have fed
Not on the books 'extended' so,
But on old Varro's flesh instead!

Alas, that Marcus Varro lives
And is a potent factor yet!
Alas, that still his practice gives
Good men occasion for regret!
To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go,
And by the 'missing' prints and plates
And frontispieces you shall know
He lives, and 'extra-illustrates'!

poem by Eugene Field
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Almost Over You

I'll never get over that day at the beach
Getting soaked by the waves and drenched by the sun
Getting next to you, our bodies within reach
It was a special memory, so much fun

I'll never get over that day at the beach
But, I'm almost over you

I'll never get over that evn'ing in Rome
Getting soaked in the downpour and not caring
Getting even wetter when under the dome
It was a great moment in time worth sharing

I'll never get over that evn'ing in Rome
But, I'm almost over you

poem by Paul H Nelson
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Back To Rome

One day its the morning
Another day its the afternoon light
On day, baby, without warning
Well, I tend to think were going back to rome
Back to rome
We had a dream it was behemoth
Im so sorry that I didnt work out
And Im sorry about the visigoths
Well, I think its time that we go back to rome
Back to rome
Dont you wish that we could stay?
Were going back to rome
Life is so fine
Then it goes wrong
Wrong
You think its going to miss you but that sun bitch gon get you
Yeah, it goes wrong
Wrong
Sun bitch gon get you
I believed in the cupid
I thought Id kiss you for all my life
I guess Im just a little stupid
Now Im going back to rome
Back to rome
Now I just cant wait
Im going back to rome
Love is so high
Then it goes wrong
Wrong
You think its going to miss you but that sun bitch gon get you
Yeah, it goes wrong
Wrong
Sun bitch gon get you

song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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