A poem begins with a lump in the throat.
— Robert Frost (via dearscience)
Reblogged from Unbecomingly a foxing


Reblogged from THE NOCTURNALS
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain,
And therefore, finding barren practisers, 
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil; 
But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain,
But, with the motion of all elements, 
Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their offices.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye;
A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind; 
A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d:
Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.
For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical 
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair;
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 

On the subject of colour, by Yannis Ritsos

No colours, he said - none… except, perhaps,
browns and greys and near-whites - ash-tones, sombre and tested,
But his open mouth showed red, and a lilac shadow lay on his underlip.

Translated by David Harsent

Arctic explorer and otherwise cool dude, Peter Freuchen (left) with pal Knud Rasmussen. Read more about his life here. 

Arctic explorer and otherwise cool dude, Peter Freuchen (left) with pal Knud Rasmussen. Read more about his life here

Winter feels like it’s almost behind us

But since it’s not yet, let’s hear what Emily Dickinson has to say about it.

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –

Photograph by Nina Leen

Photograph by Nina Leen

More Frost

The man is good. 


Love at the lips was touch 
As sweet as I could bear; 
And once that seemed too much; 
I lived on air 

That crossed me from sweet things, 
The flow of - was it musk 
From hidden grapevine springs 
Down hill at dusk? 

I had the swirl and ache 
From sprays of honeysuckle 
That when they’re gathered shake 
Dew on the knuckle. 

I craved strong sweets, but those 
Seemed strong when I was young; 
The petal of the rose 
It was that stung. 

Now no joy but lacks salt 
That is not dashed with pain 
And weariness and fault; 
I crave the stain 

Of tears, the aftermark 
Of almost too much love, 
The sweet of bitter bark 
And burning clove. 

When stiff and sore and scarred 
I take away my hand 
From leaning on it hard 
In grass and sand, 

The hurt is not enough: 
I long for weight and strength 
To feel the earth as rough 
To all my length.