The Marchioness really has all the characteristics, the entirely heroic characteristics, which make a woman respected by a man. She is female — that is, she is at once incurably candid and incurably loyal, she is full of terrible common sense, she expects little pleasure for herself and yet she can enjoy bursts of it; above all, she is physically timid and yet she can face anything. G.K. Chesterton in the Introduction to The Old Curiosity Shop (via gkchestertonquote)

(via gkchestertonquote)

I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me. — Ralph Waldo Emerson (via observando)

(via lokiator)

msfili:

Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die.
― Herbert Hoover

(via mcrts)

an-unexpected-hero:

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies - Official Teaser Trailer 

(via oakenpancake)

Love looks like happiness
When it is whole
When two stand together,
Fingers entwined, hearts open.
But there is nothing more terrible
Than Love
When it is waiting
No words to soothe the aching,
No lips to quench the thirst.
Yes, Love can be happiness
But without him,
Love is pain.

You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin - to the bitter end. And you can trust us yo keep any secret of yours - closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. — Merry, The Fellowship of the Ring
v-for-valkyr:

gerardkingofhell:

softroot:

Sometimes i forget scallops swim like this its hilarious

I THOUGHT THAT ONLY HAPPENED ON SPONGEBOB

J U N I O R

v-for-valkyr:

gerardkingofhell:

softroot:

Sometimes i forget scallops swim like this its hilarious

I THOUGHT THAT ONLY HAPPENED ON SPONGEBOB

J U N I O R

(via mattponstwin)

epscylon:

By John Keats 

———

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
                        And mid-May’s eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

———

…I’m shaking all over. 

(via mrs-darcy)

ArtistBenedict Cumberbatch
TitleOde to a Nightingale