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=395311" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rapture</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can feel she has got out of bed. <br>That means it is seven a.m.<br>I have been lying with eyes shut, <br>thinking, or possibly dreaming,<br>of how she might look if, at breakfast, <br>I spoke about the hidden place in her <br>which, to me, is like a soprano's tremolo,<br>and right then, over toast and bramble jelly,<br>if such things are possible, she came.<br>I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.<br>I imagine her hair would fall about her face<br>and she would become apparently downcast,<br>as she does at a concert when she is moved.<br>The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes<br>and there she is, next to the bed, <br>bending to a low drawer, picking over <br>various small smooth black, white,<br>and pink items of underwear. She bends <br>so low her back runs parallel to the earth,<br>but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun.<br>The two mounds of muscles for walking, leaping, lovemaking,<br>lift toward the east—what can I say?<br>Simile is useless; there is nothing like them on earth.<br>Her breasts fall full; the nipples<br>are deep pink in the glare shining up through the iron bars<br>of the gate under the earth where those who could not love<br>press, wanting to be born again. <br>I reach out and take her wrist<br>and she falls back into bed and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas. <br>Later, when I open my eyes, there she is again, <br>rummaging in the same low drawer. <br>The clock shows eight. Hmmm. <br>With huge, silent effort of great,<br>mounded muscles the earth has been turning.<br>She takes a piece of silken cloth<br>from the drawer and stands up. Under the falls <br>of hair her face has become quiet and downcast, <br>as if she will be, all day among strangers, <br>looking down inside herself at our rapture.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Galway+Kinnell">Galway Kinnell</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=395311" data-title="Rapture de Galway Kinnell" data-description="I can feel she has got out of bed. 
That means it is seven a.m.
I have been lying with eyes shut, 
thinking, or possibly dreaming,
of how she might look if, at breakfast, 
I spoke about the hidden place in her 
which, to me, is like a soprano's tr..."></div>
</div>
</div>