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=384060" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The End Of March</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury<br> <br> <br>It was cold and windy, scarcely the day <br>to take a walk on that long beach <br>Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, <br>indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, <br>seabirds in ones or twos. <br>The rackety, icy, offshore wind <br>numbed our faces on one side; <br>disrupted the formation <br>of a lone flight of Canada geese; <br>and blew back the low, inaudible rollers <br>in upright, steely mist. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sky was darker than the water <br>--it was the color of mutton-fat jade. <br>Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed <br>a track of big dog-prints (so big <br>they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on <br>lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, <br>looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, <br>over and over. Finally, they did end: <br>a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, <br>rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, <br>falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost... <br>A kite string?--But no kite. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, <br>my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box <br>set up on pilings, shingled green, <br>a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener <br>(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), <br>protected from spring tides by a palisade <br>of--are they railroad ties? <br>(Many things about this place are dubious.) <br>I'd like to retire there and do nothing, <br>or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: <br>look through binoculars, read boring books, <br>old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, <br>talk to myself, and, foggy days, <br>watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. <br>At night, a grog a l'am&eacute;ricaine. <br>I'd blaze it with a kitchen match <br>and lovely diaphanous blue flame <br>would waver, doubled in the window. <br>There must be a stove; there is a chimney, <br>askew, but braced with wires, <br>and electricity, possibly <br>--at least, at the back another wire <br>limply leashes the whole affair <br>to something off behind the dunes. <br>A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible. <br>And that day the wind was much too cold <br>even to get that far, <br>and of course the house was boarded up. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the way back our faces froze on the other side. <br>The sun came out for just a minute. <br>For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, <br>the drab, damp, scattered stones <br>were multi-colored, <br>and all those high enough threw out long shadows, <br>individual shadows, then pulled them in again. <br>They could have been teasing the lion sun, <br>except that now he was behind them <br>--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, <br>making those big, majestic paw-prints, <br>who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.</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=384060" data-title="The End Of March de Elizabeth Bishop" data-description="For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
 
 
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day 
to take a walk on that long beach 
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, 
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, 
seabirds in ones or twos...."></div>
</div>
</div>