"The moment of change is the only poem."
"The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying."

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

"The red leaves take the green leaves’ place, and the landscape yields. We go to sleep with the peach in our hands and wake with the stone, but the stone is the pledge of summers to come."

Emily Dickinson, The Letters of Emily Dickinson

(via litverve)

"She offers her hand to everyone,
with a clasp of letting go."
Jean Arnold, closing lines to “Maybe There Is No Freedom Song,” Walking on Cork: Poems (The Maecenas Press, 1991)
"There are dark stars in the cool evening and
you fondle them like killer birds’ beaks."
"My soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its eyes wide open far-off things,
and listens at the shores of the great silence"

Antonio Machado

(via songnsilence)

"Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
Was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
Loving me in secret."
James Wright, from “Milkweed,” Collected Poems (Wesleyan University Press, 1971)

(Source: apoetreflects)

"and I am awaiting
perpetually
and forever
a renaissance of wonder"
— Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from ”I Am Waiting”, in A Coney Island of the Mind (via afroui)

(Source: the-final-sentence)

"Don’t run anymore.
Quiet. How softly it rains
On the roofs of the city.
How perfect
All things are …"

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:)