February 2012
beggars would ride: anyone lived in a pretty how... →
squirrelsrunwild:
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but…
“All things truly wicked start from an innocence.”
– Ernest Hemingway (via simplymerle)
“Vivere, basta uno sguardo.”
– Il Cielo Sopra Berlino (via and true love waits in haunted attics)
“Whatever we say
we know there is another
language under this one”
– W. S. Merwin, from “To the Tongue” in Present Company (via proustitute)
“The key is to keep company only with people who uplift you, whose presence calls...”
– Epictetus (via cyclingbum)
“Silent friend of many distances, feel
how your breath is still increasing...”
– Ranier Maria Rilke (via somnambulatorie)
“Stars and blossoming fruit trees: Utter permanence and extreme fragility give an...”
– Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace, 1952 (via Woolgathersome)
“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He...”
– Robert Frost, “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening” (via literaturesluts)
“That, friends, is all I want.
Next to everything, close to nothing.”
– Pablo Neruda (via melancoliaii)
a lexical beehive: I’ve got to tell youhow I love... →
aboulie:
I’ve got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death in my mouth the tea is never hot enough then and the cigarette dry the maroon robe chills me I need you and look out the window at the noiseless snow At night on the dock the buses glow like clouds and I am…
“Some people have nothing and want nothing and are free.”
– Brazilian Girls, Good Time (via hopingtohomestead)
beggars would ride: The Snow Man - Wallace Stevens →
squirrelsrunwild:
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the…
Generation by Rae Armantrout
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the undergrowth
