Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk,
and let the misty mountain winds be free
to blow against thee: and if after years,
when these wild ecstasies shall be matured
into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
shall me a mansion for all lovely forms,
thy memory be as a dwelling-place
for all sweet sounds and harmonies.
William Wordsworth, Lines Written a Few Miles About Tintern Abbey
Untitled (You)
I’d rather talk about discarded orange peels and
the little-mentioned stickiness of rosemary and
maybe tomorrow I’ll write something about my father, but
this may be just another poem about
grapefruits and cheekbones with
understones of self-reflection and possibly of your erections, and
it may have nothing to do with solipsism and/or self contradiction
and everything to do with you.
This may be just another poem to say that
you are the pronoun to my antecedent,
to say that you are my second person,
to say you did or
you didn’t or
why did or didn’t you, but
everyone is always mentioning grapefruits and
writing poems that begin with “you” and
I’m not sure either is really worth talking about.
1 
I’m not sorry to say that I am now a Belieber.
(Source: lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber, via ontheflipsideimalright)
(Source: uthothouse)
Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the long Atlantic.
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
In summer’s twilight,
I will find you will find me
searching the sky, still.
The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy is a liquid.
J.D Salinger, “De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period”
