You've Seen Me

❝ Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. ❞
John Donne  (via havisham)
❝ For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse.
This is not your destruction.

This is your birth. ❞


Written by an 8th grader

❝ Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels. ❞

William Carlos Williams

Introduction to Howl

(via acceptthetightrope)


Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”

❝ Before I am your daughter,
your sister,
your aunt, niece, or cousin,
I am my own person,
and I will not set fire to myself
to keep you warm. ❞
1/? Things To Remember (via mashamorevna)
❝ Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. ❞
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


the clouds are above
but i am below.
how the fuck do i get up there.

❝ The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. ❞
Robert Frost.  (via baratheones)


queen - 5/11

#poetry #ugh #q 

i never really liked

my name 


until i found out 

what it tastes like 

when you sigh it 

into my



Literature Meme Five Poets Robert Frost (2/5)

Like the nineteenth-century Romantics, [Frost] maintained that a poem is “never a put-up job…. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a loneliness. It is never a thought to begin with. It is at its best when it is a tantalizing vagueness.” Yet, “working out his own version of the ‘impersonal’ view of art,” as Hyatt H. Waggoner observed, Frost also upheld T. S. Eliot’s idea that the man who suffers and the artist who creates are totally separate. [x]



I was reading a Frost poetry book last night, and found myself reading this specific poem through a different perspective…so I went to work…


Edgar Allen Poe’s manuscript for “Annabel Lee,” published in 1849, the year of his death. It was the last work he ever completed.


Day Jobs of the Poets