Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.
The Little Prince illustrated by Joey Majdali :: via iwilldobetternexttime.blogspot.com
Hey, what do you say we both be independent together, huh?
illustration by Wayne Harris :: via planet-pulp.com
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is:
Ourselves, no prison is:
“
| — | William Wordsworth, Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room |
RIP Anne McCaffery. Thanks for creating so many people I wanted to meet and so many places I wanted to go.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
in one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?
“
| — | Love’s Philosophy, Percy Bysshe Shelley |
At the round earth’s imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ;
For, if above all these my sins abound,
‘Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent, for that’s as good
As if Thou hadst seal’d my pardon with Thy blood.
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ;
For, if above all these my sins abound,
‘Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent, for that’s as good
As if Thou hadst seal’d my pardon with Thy blood.
“
| — | John Donne, Holy Sonnet 7 |
GPOY
illustrated by Charles M. Schulz :: scanned from The Complete Peanuts 1981 to 1982 :: Fantagraphics Books :: 2011
