All was still. The moon hung not out her lamp, and the stars faintly glimmered in the summer sky; the breath of night slept among the leaves of the forest.
William Blake, from "The Couch of Death", Poetical Sketches
Beauty in the apertures of pain
@anenlighteningellipsis / anenlighteningellipsis.tumblr.com
I want to say
Without temper
If possible
without the least sense of the
heroic
Without even the measured
ambition
to speak the truth
which is only another vulgarity
To say
I am not what I was
Indeed
I was nothing
and now I am at least the
possibility
of
something
and this
I will defend.