Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345492" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The House</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In dreams <br>the same bad dream goes on. <br>Like some gigantic German toy <br>the house has been rebuilt <br>upon its kelly-green lawn. <br>The same dreadful set, <br>the same family of orange and pink faces <br>carved and dressed up like puppets <br>who wait for their jaws to open and shut. <br>Nineteen forty-two, <br>nineteen forty-three, <br>nineteen forty-four… <br>it's all the same. We're at war. <br>They've rationed the gas for all three cars. <br>The Lincoln Continental breathes in its stall, <br>a hopped up greyhound waiting to be sprung. <br>The Irish boy <br>who dated her <br>(lace curtain Irish, her mother said) <br>urges her through the lead-colored garages <br>to feel the patent-leather fenders <br>and peek at the mileage. <br>All that money! <br>and kisses too. <br>Kisses that stick in the mouth <br>like the vinegar candy she used to pull <br>with her buttery fingers, pull <br>until it was white like a dog's bone, <br>white, thick and impossible to chew. <br>Father, <br>an exact likeness, <br>his face bloated and pink <br>with black market scotch, <br>sits out his monthly bender <br>in his custom-made pajamas <br>and shouts, his tongue as quick as galloping horses, <br>shouts into the long distance telephone call. <br>His mouth is as wide as his kiss. <br>Mother, <br>with just the right gesture, <br>kicks her shoes off, <br>but is made all wrong, <br>impossibly frumpy as she sits there <br>in her alabaster dressing room <br>sorting her diamonds like a bank teller <br>to see if they add up. <br>The maid <br>as thin as a pencil stick, <br>holds dinner as usual, <br>rubs her angry knuckles over the porcelain sink <br>and grumbles at the gun-shy bird dog. <br>She knows something is going on. <br>She pricks a baked potato. <br>The aunt, <br>older than all the crooked women <br>in <br>The Brothers Grimm,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">leans by a gooseneck lamp in her second floor suite, <br>turns up her earphone to eavesdrop <br>and continues to knit, <br>her needles working like kitchen shears <br>and her breasts blown out like two <br>pincushions. <br>The houseboy, <br>a quick-eyed Filipino, <br>slinks by like a Japanese spy <br>from French Provincial room <br>to French Provincial room, <br>emptying the ash trays and plumping up <br>the down upholstery. <br>His jacket shines, old shiny black, <br>a wise undertaker. <br>The milkman walks in his cartoon <br>every other day in the snoozy dawn, <br>rattling his bottles like a piggy bank. <br>And gardeners come, six at a time, <br>pulling petunias and hairy angel bells <br>up through the mulch. <br>This one again, made vaguely and cruelly, <br>one eye green and one eye blue, <br>has the only major walk-on so far, <br>has walked from her afternoon date <br>past the waiting baked potatoes, <br>past the flashing back of the Japanese spy, <br>up the cotton batten stairs, <br>past the clicking and unclicking of the earphones, <br>turns here at the hall <br>by the diamonds that she'll never earn <br>and the bender that she kissed last night <br>among thick set stars, the floating bed <br>and the strange white key… <br>up like a skein of yarn, <br>up another flight into the penthouse, <br>to slam the door on all the years <br>she'll have to live through… <br>the sailor who she won't with, <br>the boys who will walk on <br>from Andover, Exeter and St. Marks, <br>the boys who will walk off with pale unlined faces, <br>to slam the door on all the days she'll stay the same <br>and never ask why and never think who to ask, <br>to slam the door and rip off her orange blouse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, father, I wish I were dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At thirty-five <br>she'll dream she's dead <br>or else she'll dream she's back. <br>All day long the house sits <br>larger than Russia <br>gleaming like a cured hide in the sun. <br>All day long the machine waits: rooms, <br>stairs, carpets, furniture, people - <br>those people who stand at the open windows like objects <br>waiting to topple.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345492" data-title="The House de Anne Sexton" data-description="In dreams 
the same bad dream goes on. 
Like some gigantic German toy 
the house has been rebuilt 
upon its kelly-green lawn. 
The same dreadful set, 
the same family of orange and pink faces 
carved and dressed up like puppets 
who wait for their..."></div>
</div>
</div>