“Love, in whatever sense of the word we please, must surely be the principal theme of poetry. Even poems of loss and grief come to exist, almost always, because of the loss of, and the grieving for, someone or something—some moment or age or place that was once loved and is loved still.”—W. S. Merwin (via growing-orbits)
“Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.”—T. S. Eliot, from “Burnt Norton”, in Four Quartets (via pauses-and-silences)
Swift turn in the heights of air; higher still turn the invisible stars. When day withdraws to the end of the earth their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand.
We live in a world of motion and distance. The heart flies from tree to bird, from bird to distant star, from star to love; and love grows in the quiet house, turning and working, servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand.
“Life continues, and some mornings, weary of the noise, discouraged by the prospect of the interminable work to keep after, sickened also by the madness of the world that leaps at you from the newspaper, finally convinced that I will not be equal to it and that I will disappoint everyone—all I want to do is sit down and wait for evening. This is what I feel like, and sometimes I yield to it.”—Albert Camus, “Letter to P.B.”, Lyrical and Critical Essays, 1970. [via redvelvetteacake] (via skibinskipedia)