Anatidaephobia…it’s a real thing.
"Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent."
— Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via colourcollision)
(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf, via artfulfairytales)
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the moon, east of the sun.
JRR Tolkien
(via moonlitcottage)
Lawren Harris - Mount Thule Bylot Island
Solitude is like the rain.
It rises from the sea to meet the evening;
It rises from the dim, far-distant plain
toward the sky, as by an old birthright.
And thence falls on the city from the height.
It falls like rain in that gray doubtful hour
when all the streets are turning toward the dawn,
and when those bodies, with all hope foregone
of what they sought, are sorrowfully alone;
and when all men, who hate each other, creep
together in one common bed for sleep;
then solitude flows onward with the rivers…
Rainer Marie Rilke - Solitude
The Starks - they were children we once knew
Ann Arbor Antiques Market May 2012
My Name
Once when the lawn was a golden green
and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials
in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed
with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass,
feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered
what I would become and where I would find myself,
and thought I barely existed, I felt for an instant
that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard
my name as if for the first time, heard it the way
one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off
as though it belonged not to me but to the silence
from which it had come and to which it would go.—Mark Strand, from Man and Camel (Alfred A. Knopf, 2006)
(via artfulfairytales)
Random pictures
A Backward Spring
The trees are afraid to put forth buds,
And there is timidity in the grass;
The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,
And whether next week will pass
Free of sly sour winds in the fret of each bush
Of barberry waiting to bloom.
Yet the snowdrop’s face betrays no gloom,
And the primrose pants in its heedless push,
Though the myrtle asks if it’s worth the fight
This year with frost and rime
To venture one more time
On delicate leaves and buttons of white
From the selfsame bough as at last year’s prime,
And never to ruminate on or remember
What happened to it in mid-December.
— Thomas Hardy
