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=481193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Country Life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A bird that I don't know,<br>Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow,<br>Looks sideways out into the wheat<br>The wind waves under the waves of heat.<br>The field is yellow as egg-bread dough<br>Except where (just as though they'd let<br>It live for looks) a locust billows<br>In leaf-green and shade-violet,<br>A standing mercy.<br>The bird calls twice, &quot;Red clay, red clay&quot;;<br>Or else he's saying, &quot;Directly, directly.&quot;<br>If someone came by I could ask,<br>Around here all of them must know --<br>And why they live so and die so --<br>Or why, for once, the lagging heron<br>Flaps from the little creek's parched cresses<br>Across the harsh-grassed, gullied meadow<br>To the black, rowed evergreens below.<br>They know and they don't know.<br>To ask, a man must be a stranger --<br>And asking, much more answering, is dangerous;<br>Asked about it, who would not repent<br>Of all he ever did and never meant,<br>And think a life and its distresses,<br>Its random, clutched-for, homefelt blisses,<br>The circumstances of an accident?<br>The farthest farmer in a field,<br>A gaunt plant grown, for seed, by farmers,<br>Has felt a longing, lorn urbanity<br>Jailed in his breast; and, just as I,<br>Has grunted, in his old perplexity,<br>A standing plea.<br>From the tar of the blazing square<br>The eyes shift, in their taciturn<br>And unavowing, unavailable sorrow.<br>Yet the intonation of a name confesses<br>Some secrets that they never meant<br>To let out to a soul; and what words would not dim<br>The bowed and weathered heads above the denim<br>Or the once-too-often washed wash dresses?<br>They are subdued to their own element.<br>One day<br>The red, clay face<br>Is lowered to the naked clay;<br>After some words, the body is forsaken<br>The shadows lengthen, and a dreaming hope<br>Breathes, from the vague mound, Life;<br>From the grove under the spire<br>Stars shine, and a wandering light<br>Is kindled for the mourner, man.<br>The angel kneeling with the wreath<br>Sees, in the moonlight, graves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Randall+Jarrell">Randall Jarrell</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=481193" data-title="A Country Life de Randall Jarrell" data-description="A bird that I don't know,
Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow,
Looks sideways out into the wheat
The wind waves under the waves of heat.
The field is yellow as egg-bread dough
Except where (just as though they'd let
It live for looks) a loc..."></div>
</div>
</div>