“There, where a long streak of sun touches the plain

And shadows move as if they really did run,

Stands Warsaw, open on all sides to the world:

A famous town, though not so very old.

Farther, where the slant threads of rain fall

Onto those hills covered with acacia trees,

Is Prague, with its castle built on the highest hill,

As the custom of ancient city-builders was.

The white foam that rises to divide the land

We call the Alps, and there where you can see

Only darkness is fir-tree forest. And beyond,

Like a deep blue dish, lies all of Italy.

Among its many beautiful towns, you can tell Rome,

Christendom’s capital city, by that sphere-shaped arch,

Repeated along the roofline, it is the dome

Of the basilica, Saint Peter’s church.

And there, North, where a plain rises and slopes

Through blue mists, past where the sea’s bay reaches,

Paris curves upward like a stone tower’s steps,

Above the river where it keeps its flock of bridges.

And along with Paris there are other towns,

Glass-adorned and iron-bound; but to say

More about them would be too much for this once:

The rest I will tell you some other day.”