literaturecravings:

—The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

(via tri4l-and-t3rror)

moodboard-d:

apoemaday:

The Moon

by Emily Dickinson

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

petaltexturedskies:

It is November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.

Emily Dickinson, in a letter to Elizabeth Holland, wr. c. November 1865

tri4l-and-t3rror:

“you‘re so quiet” baby i’m not even here. i’m fantasizing about a book i read weeks ago. move on.

etherealacademia:

i’m in love