Dog-tired If she would come to me here Now the sunken swaths Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the setting sun! if she came to me here! If she would come to me now, Before the last-mown harebells are dead; While that vetch-clump still burns red! Before all the… Continue reading D. H. Lawrence
The mission of Everyman is to fulfill the lies he incarnates, to succeed in being no more than an exhaust illusion. — Emil Cioran, Anathemas and Admirations. (Arcade Pub; 1st English language ed edition, May 1991) Originally published 1987.
And the stars in it are dim and maybe have stopped burning. But you burn, and I know it; as I throw back my head to take you in an old transfusion happens again: divine astronomy is nothing to it. — Adrienne Rich, from “Orion,” Leaflets Poems 1965-1968. (W. W. Norton & Company; First Edition… Continue reading Adrienne Rich
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights. (Thomas Cautley Newby December 1847)