Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, with all that distance between us, I… Continue reading Charlotte Brontë
I see when men love women. They give them but a little of their lives. But women, when they love, give everything. — Oscar Wilde
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the imagination. What imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth. — John Keats, Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. (Sagwan Press, August 22, 2015) Originally published January 10th 2008.
Why did I dream of you last night? Now morning is pushing back hair with grey light Memories strike home, like slaps in the face; Raised on elbow, I stare at the pale fog beyond the window. So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: —Like letters that arrive… Continue reading Philip Larkin
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time. ― John Lubbock, The Use Of Life. (Ayer Co Pub, October 1979)
This is our world, lit with crescents and stars of light; and great petals half transparent block the openings like purple windows. Everything is strange. Things are huge and very small. The stalks of flowers are thick as oak trees. Leaves are high as the domes of vast cathedrals. We are giants, lying here, who… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. ― John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne. (Penguin Books; Mti edition, September 16, 2009)