Here you will find the Poem A Map of Verona of poet Henry Reed
Quelle belle heure, quels bons bras 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 whole long winter season, Through streets on a map, my thoughts have hovered and paced. Across the river there is a wandering suburb, An unsolved smile on a now familiar mouth; Some enchantments of earlier towns are about you: Once I was drawn to Naples in the south. Naples I know now, street and hovel and garden, The look of the islands from the avenue, Capri and Ischia, like approaching drum-beats? My youthful Naples, how I remember you! You were an early chapter, a practice in sorrow, Your shadows fell, but were only a token of pain, A sketch in tenderness, lust, and sudden parting, And I shall not need to trouble with you again. But I remember, once your map lay open, As now Verona's under the still lamp-light. I thought, are these the streets to walk in the mornings, Are these the gardens to linger in at night? And all was useless that I thought I learned: Maps are of place, not time, nor can they say The surprising height and colour of a building, Nor where the groups of people bar the way. It is strange to remember those thoughts and try to catch The underground whispers of music beneath the years, The forgotten conjectures, the clouded, forgotten vision, Which only in vanishing phrases reappears. Again, it is strange to lead a conversation Round to a name, to a cautious questioning Of travellers, who talk of Juliet's tomb and fountains And a shining smile of snowfall, late in Spring. Their memories calm this winter of expectation, Their talk restrains me, for I cannot flow Like your impetuous river to embrace you; Yet you are there, and one day I shall go. The train will bring me perhaps in utter darkness And drop me where you are blooming, unaware That a stranger has entered your gates, and a new devotion Is about to attend and haunt you everywhere. The flutes are warm: in tomorrow's cave the music Trembles and forms inside the musician's mind, The lights begin, and the shifting crowds in the causeways Are discerned through the dusk, and the rolling river behind. And in what hour of beauty, in what good arms, Shall I those regions and that city attain From whence my dreams and slightest movements rise? And what good Arms shall take them away again?