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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384012" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Arrival At Santos</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here is a coast; here is a harbor; <br>here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery: <br>impractically shaped and--who knows?--self-pitying mountains, <br>sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">with a little church on top of one. And warehouses,<br>some of them painted a feeble pink, or blue, <br>and some tall, uncertain palms. Oh, tourist,<br>is this how this country is going to answer you</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and your immodest demands for a different world, <br>and a better life, and complete comprehension<br>of both at last, and immediately, <br>after eighteen days of suspension?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Finish your breakfast. The tender is coming, <br>a strange and ancient craft, flying a strange and brilliant rag. <br>So that's the flag. I never saw it before. <br>I somehow never thought of there being a flag,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">but of course there was, all along. And coins, I presume,<br>and paper money; they remain to be seen. <br>And gingerly now we climb down the ladder backward, <br>myself and a fellow passenger named Miss Breen,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">descending into the midst of twenty-six freighters<br>waiting to be loaded with green coffee beaus.<br>Please, boy, do be more careful with that boat hook!<br>Watch out! Oh! It has caught Miss Breen's</div><div style="margin:10px 0">skirt! There! Miss Breen is about seventy, <br>a retired police lieutenant, six feet tall, <br>with beautiful bright blue eyes and a kind expression.<br>Her home, when she is at home, is in Glens Fall</div><div style="margin:10px 0">s, New York. There. We are settled. <br>The customs officials will speak English, we hope, <br>and leave us our bourbon and cigarettes.<br>Ports are necessities, like postage stamps, or soap,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">but they seldom seem to care what impression they make, <br>or, like this, only attempt, since it does not matter, <br>the unassertive colors of soap, or postage stamps-- <br>wasting away like the former, slipping the way the latter</div><div style="margin:10px 0">do when we mail the letters we wrote on the boat, <br>either because the glue here is very inferior <br>or because of the heat. We leave Santos at once; <br>we are driving to the interior.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Bishop">Elizabeth Bishop</a><div class=q>
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<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=384012" data-title="Arrival At Santos de Elizabeth Bishop" data-description="Here is a coast; here is a harbor; 
here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery: 
impractically shaped and--who knows?--self-pitying mountains, 
sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery,

with a little church on top of one. And war..."></div>
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