Quotes about basilica
Padua
pilgrims
students
art culture
Cognoscenti
The Eight
Byzantine domes
most richly
decorated Basilica
Gothic art
Giotto’s frescoes
Basilica del Santo
Capella degli Scrovegni
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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It was the basilica of gossip, the Vatican of inside dope.
quote by Robert Hughes
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three
where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood
poem by Tristan Tzara
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Tatooed Lovers
Hey Babe
How can we forget?
Those paradise days
In the city of Paris!
Seine river cruising
Eiffel tower dinner
Shows after shows!
Le Moulin Rouge
Le Crazy Horse
Le Crazy Girls
Le Femme
Le Lido de Paris
Le Paradis Latin
The great Parisian shows!
We were happy
L'Open Hope –on
Hop-off Tour
[...] Read more
poem by Kp. Shashidharan
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Lovely St Lucia! ! !
sun
rum
food
music
orange
yellow
green
whi te
exotic
pleasure
freshness
adve nture
beaches
heritage
natural
be auty
[...] Read more
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Father Explains
"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.
"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.
"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.
"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.
[...] Read more
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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S a c r e d {Terza Versione}
Approaching the carved stone fountain
on a skin-toasting summers noon in Milan,
there's allurement for one to take both hands,
and immerse them beneath the fresh, cool ripple,
of the clear umbrella of decending liquid,
casting prismed rainbows off the Iris of the Sun.
Yet...in the center town squares of Italia,
where art is non-negotiabally sacred,
dipping hands in Borghese or Trevi
would be likened to the daring sacrelig-
of ensconcing ones' feet
in the Baptismal at Peter's Basilica.
Sacred be quite subjective, though-
Traditionalists tend to scoff at such notion;
not an odds-makers chance
to grade 'old school' mantra;
castes of olde-garde sage and stripped cultures,
still embrace the tarnished green copper
[...] Read more
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Consolation
How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
[...] Read more
poem by Billy Collins
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Consolation
How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
[...] Read more
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Our Lady of Sorrows (Feast day: September,15th)
O Lady of Sorrows! Please hear
Our grief and add them to yours, dear;
With swollen eyes and bloody tear,
You showed to farmers near.
‘To farmers two,
At Milan’s Rho,
When they came to
See you! ’
The blessed pieta
Became a miracle
Bringing millions to
The Griever’s Basilica!
The blood-stained kerchief lies
In a silver reliquary;
As proof of the miracle
To world today, it stays!
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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