There’s naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean earth, except th’ smell o’ fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls on ‘em. I get out on th’ moor many a day when it’s rainin’ an’ I lie under a bush an’ listen to th’ soft swish o’ drops on th’ heather an’ I just sniff and sniff.

(via heathenwoods)

(via corn-silk)

Bless you. Listen to me:

my man wore the flowers,
and there were young leaves for me;
their blossoms gold,
their buds; sapphire,

tell me, what do you call
those trees on his mountain slopes?

Rains in season,
forests grow beautiful.
Black pregnant clouds
bring the monsoons, and stay.
Between flower and blue-gem
flower on the bilberry tree
the red-backed moths multiply,
and fallen jasmines
cover the ground.

(via jayalalita)

(via dianaandpansson)

On silver light
lay silver rain.

hymn of the cherubim ›

And this bitter hour of defeat,
When we behold a stony face in the black waters.
But radiating light, the lovers lift their silver eyelids:
They are one body. Incense streams from rose-coloured pillows
And the sweet song of those risen from the dead.