between shoulders are stone souls and wings.
There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad. by Homer, The Iliad (via larmoyante)

(Source: larmoyante, via cartographe)

litverve:

Isaac Levitan, At the summer house in twilight, c.1895

litverve:

Isaac Levitan, At the summer house in twilight, c.1895


“If my films make one more person miserable, I’ll feel I have done my job.” Woody Allen

“If my films make one more person miserable, I’ll feel I have done my job.” Woody Allen

(Source: cinemastatic)

apoetreflects:

“Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

—T.S. Eliot, (line also appears in the Transit of Venus by Harry Crosby)

He sighed profoundly, and flung himself - there was a passion in his movements which deserves the word - on the earth at the foot of the oak tree. He loved, beneath all this summer transiency, to feel the earth’s spine beneath him; for such he took the hard root of the oak tree to be; or, for image followed image, it was the back of a great horse that he was riding; or the deck of a tumbling ship - it was anything indeed, so long as it was hard, for he felt the need of something which he could attach his floating heart to; the heart that tugged at his side; the heart that seemed filled with spiced and amorous gales every evening about this time when he walked out. To the oak tree he tied it and as he lay there, gradually the flutter in and about him stilled itself; the little leaves hung, the deer stopped; the pale summer clouds stayed; his limbs grew heavy on the ground; and he lay so still that by degrees the deer stopped nearer and the rooks wheeled round him and the swallows dipped and circled and the dragonflies shot past, as if all the fertility and amorous activity of a summer’s evening were woven web-like about his body. by Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via cartographe)

(Source: scottishlad, via onabicyclefortwo)

1,737 plays

(Source: loveage-moondream, via gypsji)

litverve:

Willard Leroy Metcalf, A Summer Night, 1918

litverve:

Willard Leroy Metcalf, A Summer Night, 1918

We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing. We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats. by Nabokov, Pale Fire (via invisiblestories)

On the subway of extranjeros
I patted the empty seat beside me.

I foraged for you in welcome. Like a bottlenose dolphin,
I tore sponge from the sea floor
covered my beautiful nose with it and dug between barnacled rocks.
Yes I welcomed you with my efficient body.

I welcomed you from the house of memory,
where I am lonely

Again I vow not to think about whether you arrived,
or in what state.

Just that I was there, welcoming

by        Excerpt from Unmentionables by Beth Ann Fennelly  (via rimeswriting)

(Source: rimadadenji)

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