"How vainly men themselves amaze 

To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; 

And their uncessant labors see 

Crowned from some single herb or tree, 

Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade 

Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 

While all the flowers and trees do close 

To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 

And Innocence, thy sister dear! 

Mistaken long, I sought you then 

In busy companies of men : 

Your sacred plants, if here below, 

Only among the plants will grow ; 

Society is all but rude, 

To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green ; 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress’ name. 

Little, alas, they know or heed, 

How far these beauties hers exceed! 

Fair trees! wheresoe’er your barks I wound 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion’s heat, 

Love hither makes his best retreat : 

The gods who mortal beauty chase, 

Still in a tree did end their race. 

Apollo hunted Daphne so, 

Only that she might laurel grow, 

And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 

Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead! 

Ripe apples drop about my head ; 

The luscious clusters of the vine 

Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 

The nectarine and curious peach 

Into my hands themselves do reach ; 

Stumbling on melons as I pass, 

Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

Withdraws into its happiness : 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that’s made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, 

Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, 

Casting the body’s vest aside, 

My soul into the boughs does glide : 

There like a bird it sits and sings, 

Then whets and combs its silver wings ; 

And, till prepared for longer flight, 

Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy garden-state, 

While man there walked without a mate : 

After a place so pure and sweet, 

What other help could yet be meet! 

But ‘twas beyond a mortal’s share 

To wander solitary there : 

Two paradises ‘twere in one 

To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skillful gard’ner drew 

Of flowers and herbs this dial new ; 

Where from above the milder sun 

Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 

And, as it works, th’ industrious bee 

Computes its time as well as we. 

How could such sweet and wholesome hours 

Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!”

"The Garden" by Andrew Marvell


“Memory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.” 

The Storyteller, Mario Vargas Llosa


"Her mind lives in a quiet room,

A narrow room, and tall,

With pretty lamps to quench the gloom

And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat

And set in decorous lines;

And there are posies, round and sweet,

And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart

From cold and noise and pain,

And bolts the door against her heart,

Out wailing in the rain.”

Interior, Dorothy Parker


"Once I spoke the language of the flowers, 

Once I understood each word the caterpillar said, 

Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings, 

And shared a conversation with 

the housefly in my bed. 

Once I heard and answered 

all the questions of the crickets, 

And joined the crying of each 

falling dying flake of snow, 

Once I spoke the language of the flowers…

How did it go? 

How did it go?”

The Forgotten Language, Shel Silverstein


"The sailor dreamt of loss,

but it was I who dreamt the sailor.”

from The Snowmass Cycle, Stephen Dunn


“Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.”

Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath


"Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings…"

Villette, Charlotte Brontë


I dream, therefore I exist.
Johan August Strindberg, A Madman’s Defense (pt. 1, ch. 7)


Nella grotta dei fiori a Capri / In the cave of the flowers in Capri, José Villegas Cordero. Spanish (1844 - 1921)

(Reblogged from poboh)
”One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. “Which road do I take?” she asked. “Where do you want to go?” was his response. “I don’t know,” Alice answered. “Then,” said the cat, “it doesn’t matter.””
Lewis Carroll


Junges Mädchen als Glöcknerin blickt auf das weite Land, 1875, Otto Piltz. Germany (1846 - 1910)

(Reblogged from poboh)
Life hath set
No landmarks before us.
Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton


Henri Lebasque, “Composition florale aux dahlias”.

Follow Arcadia Art on Wordpress.

(Reblogged from arcadiaart)
Life is the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises.
Samuel Butler


Punting on the River, 1914, Peder Mørk Mønsted

(Reblogged from laclefdescoeurs)