There is another alphabet,

Whispering from every leaf,

Singing from every river,

Shimmering from every sky.

Dejan Stojanovic, "Forgotten Home,"

Poetry Soup

(via metaphorformetaphor:)

(Source: riverlust)

"I believe pain breeds wolves
and joys give rise to moons.

We grow forests in our bones
so our memories can’t find us.

I believe we hide and haunt ourselves."

Pavana पवन

(via maza-dohta)

"i slept. and woke on the other side of my life."

nayyirah waheed

(via nayyirahwaheed)

Acquainted with the Night
 

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 
I have been one acquainted with the night.

 Robert Frost

painting by Emil Nolde
(via aneleh:)

Acquainted with the Night

 

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rainand back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 
I have been one acquainted with the night.

painting by Emil Nolde

(via aneleh:)

The Gospel According to Sky


No matter how many times I hear them
I cannot remember the names of clouds—

not the white brush strokes whipping upward
like a wishing breath, not the staccato

of cotton batting torn apart and pasted
on morning’s sculpting light, nor the low-hung

burnished steel that insulates, compresses
like mood. The encyclopaedia sings cirrus,
  
stratus, cumulus, cirrocumulus, altostratus, 
altocumulus, cumulonimbus, stratocumulus,

but all I recall is how the ceaseless, immutable
blue holds those changing shapes, like a lover

who’s finally learned how to love her right.

Cheryl Dumesnil, from Redheaded Stepchild (Spring/Summer 2014)

(via fluttering-slips:)

Wild

When they were wild
When they were not yet human
When they could have been anything,
I was on the other side ready with milk to lure them,
And their father, too, the name like a net in his hands.

Louise Erdrich

Art: Theodor Kittelsen

(via theparisreview:)

"We all arrive by different streets,
by unequal languages, at Silence."

Pablo Neruda, from “Still Another Day: XVII/Men”

(via litverve)

"kiss me a little:
the air
darkens and is alive –
o live with me in the fewness of
these colours;"

e. e. cummings, from XLVIII

(via litverve)

"what i want is to be
aware of the spaces between stars, to breathe
continuously the sources of sky,
a veined sail moving,
my love never setting
foot to the dark
anvil of earth"

Pat Lowther, from “Random Interview,” Time Capsule

(Polestar, 1996)

"The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."

Ezra Pound, In a Station of the Metro

(via aliceinwater)

"I empty myself with light
Until I become morning."

Your scent is in the room

Swiftly, it overwhelms and conquers me!

Jasmines, night jasmines, perfect of perfumes,

Heavy with dew before the dawn of day!

Your face was in the mirror. I could see

You smile and vanish suddenly away,

leaving behind the vestige of a tear. (…)

CLAUDE McKAY, Jasmines

(via didierleclair:)

"This morning, a pause in your voice. I fill the space with rain sound."
"Gods, goddesses
wear the winged head-dress

of horns, as the butterfly
antennae,

or the erect king-cobra crest
to show how the worm turns."

H.D. The Walls Do Not Fall [7]

(via robcam-wfu)