116 Total Quotes

Elizabeth Bishop Quotes Page 3

Elizabeth Bishop
Still dark. The unknown bird sits on his usual branch. The little dog next door barks in his sleep inquiringly, just once. Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires once or twice, quavering. Questions--if that is what they are-- answered directly, simply, by day itself. Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins... The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn. The little black dog runs in his yard. His owner's voice arises, stern, "You ought to be ashamed!" What has he done? He bounces cheerfully up and down; he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves. Obviously, he has no sense of shame. He and the bird know everything is answered, all taken care of, no need to ask again. --Yesterday brought to today so lightly! (A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)
Elizabeth Bishop
#Sleep

Elizabeth Bishop
The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions. And then it stops and undertakes to answer in the same tone of voice. No one could tell the difference. Uninnocent, these conversations start, and then engage the senses, only half-meaning to. And then there is no choice, and then there is no sense; until a name and all its connotation are the same.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Conversation

Elizabeth Bishop
Unfunny uncles who insist in trying on a lady's hat, --oh, even if the joke falls flat, we share your slight transvestite twist in spite of our embarrassment. Costume and custom are complex. The headgear of the other sex inspires us to experiment. Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach with paper plates upon your laps, keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps with exhibitionistic screech, the visors hanging o'er the ear so that the golden anchors drag, --the tides of fashion never lag. Such caps may not be worn next year. Or you who don the paper plate itself, and put some grapes upon it, or sport the Indian's feather bonnet, --perversities may aggravate the natural madness of the hatter. And if the opera hats collapse and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps, he thinks what might a miter matter? Unfunny uncle, you who wore a hat too big, or one too many, tell us, can't you, are there any stars inside your black fedora? Aunt exemplary and slim, with avernal eyes, we wonder what slow changes they see under their vast, shady, turned-down brim.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Hats

Elizabeth Bishop
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast, silent, bored really blindly veined, grieves, maybe lives and lets live, passes bets, something moving but invisibly, and with what clamor why restrained I cannot fathom even a ripple. (See the thin flying of nine black hairs four around one five the other nipple, flying almost intolerably on your own breath.) Equivocal, but what we have in common's bound to be there, whatever we must own equivalents for, something that maybe I could bargain with and make a separate peace beneath within if never with.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Love #Women

Elizabeth Bishop
About the size of an old-style dollar bill, American or Canadian, mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays --this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?) has never earned any money in its life. Useless and free, it has spent seventy years as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to. It must be Nova Scotia; only there does one see abled wooden houses painted that awful shade of brown. The other houses, the bits that show, are white. Elm trees, low hills, a thin church steeple --that gray-blue wisp--or is it? In the foreground a water meadow with some tiny cows, two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows; two minuscule white geese in the blue water, back-to-back, feeding, and a slanting stick. Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow, fresh-squiggled from the tube. The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky below the steel-gray storm clouds. (They were the artist's specialty.) A specklike bird is flying to the left. Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird? Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it! It's behind--I can almost remember the farmer's name. His barn backed on that meadow. There it is, titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple, filaments of brush-hairs, barely there, must be the Presbyterian church. Would that be Miss Gillespie's house? Those particular geese and cows are naturally before my time. A sketch done in an hour, "in one breath," once taken from a trunk and handed over. Would you like this? I'll Probably never have room to hang these things again. Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George, he'd be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother when he went back to England. You know, he was quite famous, an R.A.... I never knew him. We both knew this place, apparently, this literal small backwater, looked at it long enough to memorize it, our years apart. How strange. And it's still loved, or its memory is (it must have changed a lot). Our visions coincided--"visions" is too serious a word--our looks, two looks: art "copying from life" and life itself, life and the memory of it so compressed they've turned into each other. Which is which? Life and the memory of it cramped, dim, on a piece of Bristol board, dim, but how live, how touching in detail --the little that we get for free, the little of our earthly trust. Not much. About the size of our abidance along with theirs: the munching cows, the iris, crisp and shivering, the water still standing from spring freshets, the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Love #Vision

Elizabeth Bishop
The great light cage has broken up in the air, freeing, I think, about a million birds whose wild ascending shadows will not be back, and all the wires come falling down. No cage, no frightening birds; the rain is brightening now. The face is pale that tried the puzzle of their prison and solved it with an unexpected kiss, whose freckled unsuspected hands alit.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Birds

Elizabeth Bishop
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony —like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river. The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony. He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds—along with the sun. Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle. I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, —I saw it with one eye close to the crumb— and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee. We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Miracles

Elizabeth Bishop
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. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist. The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade. Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over. Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost... A kite string?--But no kite. I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. At night, a grog a l'américaine. I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window. There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes. A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible. And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up. On the way back our faces froze on the other side. The sun came out for just a minute. For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again. They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Dreams

Elizabeth Bishop
Moving from left to left, the light is heavy on the Dome, and coarse. One small lunette turns it aside and blankly stares off to the side like a big white old wall-eyed horse. On the east steps the Air Force Band in uniforms of Air Force blue is playing hard and loud, but--queer-- the music doesn't quite come through. It comes in snatches, dim then keen, then mute, and yet there is no breeze. The giant trees stand in between. I think the trees must intervene, catching the music in their leaves like gold-dust, till each big leaf sags. Unceasingly the little flags feed their limp stripes into the air, and the band's efforts vanish there. Great shades, edge over, give the music room. The gathered brasses want to go boom--boom.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Air Force #Congress

Elizabeth Bishop
The state with the prettiest name, the state that floats in brackish water, held together by mangrave roots that bear while living oysters in clusters, and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass. The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white, and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale every time in a tantrum. Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness, and pelicans whose delight it is to clown; who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents in and out among the mangrove islands and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings on sun-lit evenings. Enormous turtles, helpless and mild, die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches, and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets twice the size of a man's. The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze like the bills of the pelicans. The tropical rain comes down to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells: Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia, parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears, arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico, the buried Indian Princess's skirt; with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line is delicately ornamented. Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down, over something they have spotted in the swamp, in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment sinking through water. Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents. On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet. The mosquitoes go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos. After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh until the moon rises. Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed, and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest post-card of itself. After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away. The alligator, who has five distinct calls: friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning-- whimpers and speaks in the throat of the Indian Princess.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Florida State

Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow! There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Music

Elizabeth Bishop
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot, that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be dis- tracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw back. Withdrawal is always best. The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides. When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarp- ments, much less dream of climbing them. That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors. Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell? Nothing. Let's go on. My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection. My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this. But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me. If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Nature #Rain

Elizabeth Bishop
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes. --Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains. The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Life #Running

Elizabeth Bishop
Hidden, oh hidden in the high fog the house we live in, beneath the magnetic rock, rain-, rainbow-ridden, where blood-black bromelias, lichens, owls, and the lint of the waterfalls cling, familiar, unbidden. In a dim age of water the brook sings loud from a rib cage of giant fern; vapor climbs up the thick growth effortlessly, turns back, holding them both, house and rock, in a private cloud. At night, on the roof, blind drops crawl and the ordinary brown owl gives us proof he can count: five times--always five-- he stamps and takes off after the fat frogs that, shrilling for love, clamber and mount. House, open house to the white dew and the milk-white sunrise kind to the eyes, to membership of silver fish, mouse, bookworms, big moths; with a wall for the mildew's ignorant map; darkened and tarnished by the warm touch of the warm breath, maculate, cherished; rejoice! For a later era will differ. (O difference that kills or intimidates, much of all our small shadowy life!) Without water the great rock will stare unmagnetized, bare, no longer wearing rainbows or rain, the forgiving air and the high fog gone; the owls will move on and the several waterfalls shrivel in the steady sun.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Nature #Seasons #Song

Elizabeth Bishop
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship, although it meant the end of travel. Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock and all the sea were moving marble. We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship; we'd rather own this breathing plain of snow though the ship's sails were laid upon the sea as the snow lies undissolved upon the water. O solemn, floating field, are you aware an iceberg takes repose with you, and when it wakes may pasture on your snows? This is a scene a sailor'd give his eyes for. The ship's ignored. The iceberg rises and sinks again; its glassy pinnacles correct elliptics in the sky. This is a scene where he who treads the boards is artlessly rhetorical. The curtain is light enough to rise on finest ropes that airy twists of snow provide. The wits of these white peaks spar with the sun. Its weight the iceberg dares upon a shifting stage and stands and stares. The iceberg cuts its facets from within. Like jewelry from a grave it saves itself perpetually and adorns only itself, perhaps the snows which so surprise us lying on the sea. Good-bye, we say, good-bye, the ship steers off where waves give in to one another's waves and clouds run in a warmer sky. Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see them so: fleshed, fair, erected indivisible.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Metaphor

Elizabeth Bishop
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or some northerly harbor of Labrador, before he became a schoolteacher a great-uncle painted a big picture. Receding for miles on either side into a flushed, still sky are overhanging pale blue cliffs hundreds of feet high, their bases fretted by little arches, the entrances to caves running in along the level of a bay masked by perfect waves. On the middle of that quiet floor sits a fleet of small black ships, square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, their spars like burnt match-sticks. And high above them, over the tall cliffs' semi-translucent ranks, are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds hanging in n's in banks. One can hear their crying, crying, the only sound there is except for occasional sizhine as a large aquatic animal breathes. In the pink light the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, round and round and round at the same height in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, while the ships consider it. Apparently they have reached their destination. It would be hard to say what brought them there, commerce or contemplation.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Journey

Elizabeth Bishop
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying. In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals, please come flying, to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums descending out of the mackerel sky over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water, please come flying. Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags rising and falling like birds all over the harbor. Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing countless little pellucid jellies in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains. The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged. The waves are running in verses this fine morning. Please come flying. Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe trailing a sapphire highlight, with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots, with heaven knows how many angels all riding on the broad black brim of your hat, please come flying. Bearing a musical inaudible abacus, a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons, please come flying. Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan is all awash with morals this fine morning, so please come flying. Mounting the sky with natural heroism, above the accidents, above the malignant movies, the taxicabs and injustices at large, while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears that simultaneously listen to a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer, please come flying. For whom the grim museums will behave like courteous male bower-birds, for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait on the steps of the Public Library, eager to rise and follow through the doors up into the reading rooms, please come flying. We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping, or play at a game of constantly being wrong with a priceless set of vocabularies, or we can bravely deplore, but please please come flying. With dynasties of negative constructions darkening and dying around you, with grammar that suddenly turns and shines like flocks of sandpipers flying, please come flying. Come like a light in the white mackerel sky, come like a daytime comet with a long unnebulous train of words, from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Life

Elizabeth Bishop
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood built somewhat like a box. No. Built like several boxes in descending sizes one above the other. Each is turned half-way round so that its corners point toward the sides of the one below and the angles alternate. Then on the topmost cube is set a sort of fleur-de-lys of weathered wood, long petals of board, pierced with odd holes, four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical. From it four thin, warped poles spring out, (slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles) and from them jig-saw work hangs down, four lines of vaguely whittled ornament over the edges of the boxes to the ground. The monument is one-third set against a sea; two-thirds against a sky. The view is geared (that is, the view's perspective) so low there is no "far away," and we are far away within the view. A sea of narrow, horizontal boards lies out behind our lonely monument, its long grains alternating right and left like floor-boards--spotted, swarming-still, and motionless. A sky runs parallel, and it is palings, coarser than the sea's: splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds. "Why does the strange sea make no sound? Is it because we're far away? Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor, or in Mongolia?" An ancient promontory, an ancient principality whose artist-prince might have wanted to build a monument to mark a tomb or boundary, or make a melancholy or romantic scene of it... "But that queer sea looks made of wood, half-shining, like a driftwood, sea. And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud. It's like a stage-set; it is all so flat! Those clouds are full of glistening splinters! What is that?" It is the monument. "It's piled-up boxes, outlined with shoddy fret-work, half-fallen off, cracked and unpainted. It looks old." --The strong sunlight, the wind from the sea, all the conditions of its existence, may have flaked off the paint, if ever it was painted, and made it homelier than it was. "Why did you bring me here to see it? A temple of crates in cramped and crated scenery, what can it prove? I am tired of breathing this eroded air, this dryness in which the monument is cracking." It is an artifact of wood. Wood holds together better than sea or cloud or and could by itself, much better than real sea or sand or cloud. It chose that way to grow and not to move. The monument's an object, yet those decorations, carelessly nailed, looking like nothing at all, give it away as having life, and wishing; wanting to be a monument, to cherish something. The crudest scroll-work says "commemorate," while once each day the light goes around it like a prowling animal, or the rain falls on it, or the wind blows into it. It may be solid, may be hollow. The bones of the artist-prince may be inside or far away on even drier soil. But roughly but adequately it can shelter what is within (which after all cannot have been intended to be seen). It is the beginning of a painting, a piece of sculpture, or poem, or monument, and all of wood. Watch it closely.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Monuments

Elizabeth Bishop
It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier is off, the fountain is in the dark. Not a soul is in the park. Below, where the wallpaper is peeling, the Jardin des Plantes has locked its gates. Those photographs are animals. The mighty flowers and foliage rustle; under the leaves the insects tunnel. We must go under the wallpaper to meet the insect-gladiator, to battle with a net and trident, and leave the fountain and the square But oh, that we could sleep up there....
Elizabeth Bishop
#Sleep

Elizabeth Bishop
This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels, flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections; the whole region, from the highest heron down to the weightless mangrove island with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings like illumination in silver, and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower in an ornamental spray of spray; this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope: it does look like heaven. But a skeletal lighthouse standing there in black and white clerical dress, who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better. He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet, that that is why the shallow water is so warm, and he knows that heaven is not like this. Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare and when it gets dark he will remember something strongly worded to say on the subject.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Heaven

Elizabeth Bishop
The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close, with its breathing and thick hair, for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung. Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts, the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare-- even to the sow that always ate her young-- till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head. But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts (he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours), the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red the burning puddles seemed to reassure. And then he thought he almost might endure his exile yet another year or more. But evenings the first star came to warn. The farmer whom he worked for came at dark to shut the cows and horses in the barn beneath their overhanging clouds of hay, with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light, safe and companionable as in the Ark. The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored. The lantern--like the sun, going away-- laid on the mud a pacing aureole. Carrying a bucket along a slimy board, he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him. But it took him a long time finally to make up his mind to go home.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Life

Elizabeth Bishop
You won't become a gourmet* cook By studying our Fannie's book-- Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss. Nevertheless, you'll find, Frank dear, The basic elements** are here. And if a problem should arise: The Soufflé fall before your eyes, Or strange things happen to the Rice --You know I love to give advice. Elizabeth Christmas, 1971 * Forbidden word ** Forbidden phrase P.S. Fannie should not be underrated; She has become sophisticated. She's picked up many gourmet* tricks Since the edition of '96.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Cooking #Farming And Farmers