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=384013" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At the Fishhouses</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Although it is a cold evening,<br>down by one of the fishhouses<br>an old man sits netting,<br>his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,<br>a dark purple-brown,<br>and his shuttle worn and polished.<br>The air smells so strong of codfish<br>it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.<br>The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs<br>and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up<br>to storerooms in the gables<br>for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.<br>All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,<br>swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,<br>is opaque, but the silver of the benches,<br>the lobster pots, and masts, scattered<br>among the wild jagged rocks,<br>is of an apparent translucence<br>like the small old buildings with an emerald moss<br>growing on their shoreward walls.<br>The big fish tubs are completely lined<br>with layers of beautiful herring scales<br>and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered<br>with creamy iridescent coats of mail,<br>with small iridescent flies crawling on them.<br>Up on the little slope behind the houses,<br>set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,<br>is an ancient wooden capstan,<br>cracked, with two long bleached handles<br>and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,<br>where the ironwork has rusted.<br>The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.<br>He was a friend of my grandfather.<br>We talk of the decline in the population<br>and of codfish and herring<br>while he waits for a herring boat to come in.<br>There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.<br>He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,<br>from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,<br>the blade of which is almost worn away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down at the water's edge, at the place<br>where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp<br>descending into the water, thin silver<br>tree trunks are laid horizontally<br>across the gray stones, down and down<br>at intervals of four or five feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,<br>element bearable to no mortal,<br>to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly<br>I have seen here evening after evening.<br>He was curious about me. He was interested in music;<br>like me a believer in total immersion,<br>so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.<br>I also sang &quot;A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.&quot;<br>He stood up in the water and regarded me<br>steadily, moving his head a little.<br>Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge<br>almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug<br>as if it were against his better judgment.<br>Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,<br>the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,<br>the dignified tall firs begin.<br>Bluish, associating with their shadows,<br>a million Christmas trees stand<br>waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended<br>above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.<br>I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,<br>slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,<br>icily free above the stones,<br>above the stones and then the world.<br>If you should dip your hand in,<br>your wrist would ache immediately,<br>your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn<br>as if the water were a transmutation of fire<br>that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.<br>If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,<br>then briny, then surely burn your tongue.<br>It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:<br>dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,<br>drawn from the cold hard mouth<br>of the world, derived from the rocky breasts<br>forever, flowing and drawn, and since<br>our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.</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>
<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=384013" data-title="At the Fishhouses de Elizabeth Bishop" data-description="Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run an..."></div>
</div>
</div>