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#Seasonal quotes
September slipped by into a gold and crimson graciousness of October.
—L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea
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December, from The Procession of Months (c.1889). All the poems were written by fifteen-year-old Beatrice Crane and illustrated by her acclaimed artist father, Walter Crane.
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[TEXT ID: "December" by Beatrice Crane.
Now wildly sweeps the wind
And wildly drives the sleet
DECEMBER fast draws nigh
Wrapped close from head to feet.
Her eyes glance restlessly
From shaken tree to plain,
The dark hair 'neath her hood
Is wet with frozen rain.
Her furry cloak she holds
With one hand round her form,
The other one lifts high
A torch to light the storm
Scance tree or shrub doth cheer
The dreary scene around,
Save for the moaning wind,
There is no other sound.
December's eyes grow sad
And fainter still her tread;
One hears a long, low sight
Which tells the year is dead. /end ID]
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feltpoetry · 2 years
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“waiting for what? i’d like to know.
it is august.
my life is going to change. i feel it.”
raymond carver
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whosaidsoup · 1 year
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Kate Clayborn, Love Lettering
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godzilla-reads · 2 years
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“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.” -Helen Bevington
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daily-spooky · 5 months
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blackpnk · 4 months
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Andre Braugher as Raymond Holt Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Season 1
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fuckyeahgoodomens · 7 months
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Ineffable Fandom manifesting S3 :D.
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1941-crowley-slut · 4 months
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ashaseth · 6 months
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“He found himself wondering at times,especially in the autumn,about the wild lands,and strange visions of mountainsthat he had never seencame into his dreams.” J.R.R. Tolkien
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It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet.
—M. Villefort, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
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"And even now in the gathering dark of a late afternoon in December, of one more year stretching between us, I think of you. I remember."
~ Tom Hansen, from "December Monologue"
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lovelyinspiration1463 · 4 months
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This is my pièce de résistance. I've peaked.
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joytri · 3 months
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a pounding in my heart
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goodomensbutwrong · 8 months
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Crowley: Do you want to play 20 Questions?
Aziraphale: Sure!
Aziraphale: Whats your favorite color?
Crowley, laser fucking focused: Triangle. Do you love me?
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daily-spooky · 7 months
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