"find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks" -- William Shakespeare

No flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet the dawn; the dry grass had withered on the plains; the burning fields of air were vacant of birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun, began their shrill and deafening song among the cypresses and olives.

Mary Shelley, The Last Man

Mary Shelley’s invocation of her circle In The Last Man is so heart-breakingly melancholic.

All you need now is to stand at the window and let your rhythmical sense open and shut, open and shut, boldly and freely, until one thing melts in another, until the taxis are dancing with the daffodils, until a whole has been made from all these separate fragments.

—Virginia Woolf, A Letter To A Young Poet (via seabois)

(via batifoler)

Friendship,hand in hand with admiration, tenderness and respect, built a bower of delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in America, as the homeless wind or herbless sea.

Mary Shelley, The Last Man

The early November day was windless, blooming with a muffled lustre; weak sun drew out of the damp ground a haze within whose grained iridescence shapes and colours combined to create a visionary landscape, consuming its heart of honey colour, lavender, rose, dark amber, russet, jade and violet. From the polls of the stripped willows sprang sheaves of tapering copper wands, each one luminous from groove to tip. The river lay in its crescent loop entirely without movement,an artifice of green-black liquescent marble, inlaid between the banks’ curved and scalloped edges; solider far than the dematerializing forms of earth around, above it.

—Rosamond Lehmann, The Echoing Grove (via sketchofthepast)