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Repost from Orpheon
"The Flower Girl", Unknown Arist, formerly attributed to William Etty (10 March 1787 – 13 November 1849), English
Repost from ELYSIVM
To Autumn
By John Keats
"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."
Therefore, I shall totally eradicate
The fuel of that enemy,
For this enemy hasn't a mission
Other than injuring me.
Hence the enemy, rage,
Creates sufferings such as those and the like,
While whoever clamps down and destroys his rage
Will be happy in this (life) and others.
Finding its fuel in the foul state of mind
That arises from its bringing about things I don't want
And its preventing what I wish,
Anger, once enflamed, destroys me.
Repost from internal observer
"Cupid with a Pistol on Top of a Mountain of Skulls" by Gustave Doré ( 1832 –1883).
