Visto che è il giorno che è, tanto vale dirle, le cose, no?

Under a poplar

A dedication to my wife

To whom I owe the leaping delight

That quickens my senses in our wakingtime

And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,

The breathing in unison,


Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other

Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

And babble the same speech without need of meaning.


No peevish winter wind shall chill

No sullen tropic sun shall wither

The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only


But this dedication is for others to read:

These are private words addressed to you in public.

(Thomas Stearns Eliot)

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