Wyrtig

[pleoros]

[striga-atra]

Astray Films - Dark side of the lens

[michellekpoems]

And it has been one hell of a year. I have worn the seasons under my sleeves, on my thighs, running down my cheeks. This is what surviving looks like, my dear.

Michelle K., It Has Been One Hell of a Year (via aestheticintrovert)

[lemon-pledge-laverne]

Jousting with a willow, a bull elk wins a garland for his trouble

National Geographic

June.1973

[the-final-sentence]

And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.

Donna Tartt, from The Goldfinch (via the-final-sentence)

[outrageauxbonnesmoeurs]

[oraclesofthefortuneteller]

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[terramantra]

[oraclesofthefortuneteller]

terramantra:

Anne Brigman

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[apoetreflects]

I wish I could say The rain erases Numbers and Rinses names Away. But It would not Be true. A stand Of oak speaks With ten thousand Green tongues Scattering words Like a blur Of blackbirds.

Conrad Hilberry, from “A Thin Song for a Girl,” in Sorting the Smoke (University of Iowa Press, 1990)

[wyrtig-blog]

“We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?”

From Goblin Market, by Christina Rossetti

[wyrtig-blog]

Lilith, by Kenyon Cox, 1856 - 1919

[wyrtig-blog]

Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.”

From Goblin Market, by Christina Rossetti

[wyrtig-blog]

The Death of Albine, by John Collier

[ryandonato-deactivated20130922]

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

W. B. Yeats, from “The Wanderings of Oisin,” in The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems (Kegan Paul and Co., 1889)

[wyrtig-blog]

The Priestess of Delphi, by John Collier, 1891

[wyrtig-blog]

An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighbourhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the origin of every fable and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.

Thoreau, from 'Solitude' in Walden 

[wyrtig-blog]

from autumn to winter by nikolinelr on Flickr.

[wyrtig-blog]

untitled by nikolinelr on Flickr.

[wyrtig-blog]

untitled by nikolinelr on Flickr.