“He shouldn't have said that," repeated Adrian, eerily serious. He leaned his face toward mine. "I don't care if he's not the emotional type or the complimentary type or what. No one can look at you in this dress, in all that fire and gold, and start talking about anachronisms. If I were him, I would have said, 'You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.”
―
Richelle Mead,
The Golden Lily
“No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with itshideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly.Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? . . . You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius-- is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile. . . . People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial.That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders.It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. . . . Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you.But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully.When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days,listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure,or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals,of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. . . . A new Hedonism-- that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol.With your personality there is nothing you could not do.The world belongs to you for a season. . . . The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself.I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last--such a little time.The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again.The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.” ― Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
“Lilies, I rule, heads, you do," he [the King] said, and threw the coin into the air."Lilies, you rule, heads, you throw again," said Attolia.The coin dropped. Eugenides looked at it and then showed it to her. "No need," he said. The coin sat in his palm, obverse, showing the lilies of Attolia. He flipped it again and again and again. Each time it landed showing the lilies. ...(Relius)He wanted to dismiss the coin toss as slight of hand. Any circus performer could control the drop of a coin, but he'd been puzzled. The queen had been undismayed; she had seemed almost vindicated in her manner. It had been the King who was more disturbed with each toss of the coin. He'd looked almost sick, Relius thought, by the time he put the coin away....Walking away along the arcade that lay perpendicular to the one where Relius lurked, the king pulled the coin from his pocket. He looked at the gold stater in sudden disgust and pitched it hard between the columns of the arcade into the shrubbery.” ― Megan Whalen Turner, The King of Attolia
“Yeah, well things change. Now I want to be here." Another long, seconds-ticking pause. Dust danced in one fading gleam of gold coming through a low window, following long lazy swirls down to the ground. "With you.” ― Lili St. Crow, Betrayals
“Beauty is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight,or springtime, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you...Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed...Ah! realise your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar...Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing...The world belongs to you for a season...how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last. The common hillflowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to...Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“The first sorrow of autumn is the slow good-bye of the garden that stands so long in the evening—a brown poppy head, the stalk of a lily, and still cannot go.The second sorrow is the empty feet of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold is folded in feathers with its head in a bag.And the third sorrow is the slow good-bye of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers the minutes of evening, the golden and holy ground of the picture.The fourth sorrow is the pond gone black, ruined, and sunken the city of water—the beetle's palace, the catacombs of the dragonfly.And the fifth sorrow is the slow good-bye of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter—firewood, tent poles.And the sixth sorrow is the fox's sorrow, the joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, the hooves that pound; till earth closes her ear to the fox's prayer.And the seventh sorrow is the slow good-bye of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window as the year packs up like a tatty fairground that came for the children.” ― Ted Hughes
“The blessed damozel lean'd outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters still'd at even;She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.” ― Dante Gabriel Rossetti
“I dreamed I stood upon a little hill, And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed Like a waste garden, flowering at its will With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed Black and unruffled; there were white lilies A few, and crocuses, and violets Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun. And there were curious flowers, before unknown, Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one That had drunk in the transitory tone Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades Of grass that in an hundred springs had been Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars, And watered with the scented dew long cupped In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt, A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair. And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across The garden came a youth; one hand he raised To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes Were clear as crystal, naked all was he, White as the snow on pathless mountains frore, Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes A marble floor, his brow chalcedony. And he came near me, with his lips uncurled And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth, And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend, Come I will show thee shadows of the world And images of life. See from the South Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.' And lo! within the garden of my dream I saw two walking on a shining plain Of golden light. The one did joyous seem And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids And joyous love of comely girl and boy, His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy; And in his hand he held an ivory lute With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair, And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute, And round his neck three chains of roses were. But he that was his comrade walked aside; He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight, And yet again unclenched, and his head Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death. A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold With the device of a great snake, whose breath Was fiery flame: which when I did behold I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.' Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.' Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.” ― Lord Alfred Douglas
“Anna held up a small black-bound memorandum book. Cordelia hadn’t even seen her retrieve it. They strode out of the bedroom, Anna waving the book over her head in triumph. “This,” she announced, “will hold the answers to all our questions.”Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book… about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia—a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James—Mariane, Virna, Eugenia—”“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily… ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me.…”“Well, that hardly seems fair,” said James. “Like someone solving a case before Sherlock Holmes. If I were you I would feel challenged, as if to a duel.”Matthew chuckled. Anna gave James a dark look. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said.“Is it working?” said James.“Possibly,” said Anna, regarding the book. Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: Was Ariadne’s name in there? Was she considered a conquest now, or something—someone—else?” ― Cassandra Clare, Chain of Gold
“We don’t have to love anybody who doesn’t love us back.” ― Lily Gold, Nanny for the Neighbors
“No one can look at you in this dress, in all that fire and gold, and start talking about anachronisms. If I were him, I would have said, ‘You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.” ― Richelle Mead, The Golden Lily
“Aubade "There was one summerthat returned many times overthere was one flower unfurlingtaking many formsCrimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late rosesThere was one loveThere was one love, there were many nightsSmell of the mock orange treeCorridors of jasmine and liliesStill the wind blewThere were many winters but I closed my eyesThe cold air white with dissolved wingsThere was one garden when the snow meltedAzure and white; I couldn’t tellmy solitude from love—There was one love; he had many voicesThere was one dawn; sometimeswe watched it togetherI was hereI was hereThere was one summer returning over and overthere was one dawnI grew old watching” ― Louise Glück, Poems, 1962-2012
“In her right hand the lily, in her leftThe letter--all her bright hair streaming down--And all the coverlid was cloth of goldDrawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteAll but her face, and that clear-featured faceWas lovely, for she did not seem as dead,But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.” ― Alfred Tennyson, Idylls of the King
“Holy shit, Seb,” she mumbles. “You’re a freaking nuclear weapon.” It was just as good for her, then. Thank God. I nuzzle into her soft curls, breathing in her sweet apple scent. “My dick causes widespread death and destruction?” “It belongs in a fucking containment facility. Made of concrete. Buried fifty feet underground. Somewhere near the Earth’s core, where no poor, innocent girl will accidentally stumble across it and get fucked to pieces.” She twitches as an aftershock runs through her. “I think I’m dead. My vagina exploded.” I can’t help but laugh, pulling her closer, and she relaxes against me. Slowly, cautiously, her little arms sneak around my waist. It takes me a second to realise what she’s doing. She’s trying to hug me.” ― Lily Gold, Nanny for the Neighbors
“QUALITIESThere is a sun-star rising outside form.I am lost in that other. It's sweet notto look at two worlds, to melt in meaningas honey melts in milk. No one tires of following the soul. I don't recall now whathappens on the manifest plane. I strollwith those I have always wanted to know,fresh and graceful as a water lily, or a rose.The body is a boat; I am waves swaying against it. Whenever it anchors somewhere, I smashit loose, or smash it to pieces. If I getlazy and cold, flames come from my ocean and surround me. I laugh inside them like gold purifying itself. A certain melody makesthe snake put his head down on a line in the dirt....Here is my head, brother: Whatnext! Weary of form, I come into qualities.Each says, "I am a blue-green sea. Diveinto me!" I am Alexander at the outermostextension of empire, turning all my armiesin toward the meaning of armies, Shams.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“And some days, I don’t think of her at all. And those are the worst.” ” ― Lily Gold, Faking with Benefits
“If we could push ajar the gates of life,And stand within, and all God's workings see,We could interpret all this doubt and strife,And for each mystery could find a key.But not today. Then be content, poor heart!God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold:We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart--Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.” ― Mary Riley Smith
“Even though I keep buying more bookshelves, I can never keep up with my book-buying habit. It’s probably a diagnosable addiction at this point.” ― Lily Gold, Three Swedish Mountain Men
“No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with itshideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly.Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? . . . You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius-- is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile. . . . People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial.That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders.It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. . . . Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you.But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully.When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days,listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure,or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals,of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. . . . A new Hedonism-- that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol.With your personality there is nothing you could not do.The world belongs to you for a season. . . . The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself.I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last--such a little time.The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again.The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.” ― Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
“Lilies, I rule, heads, you do," he [the King] said, and threw the coin into the air."Lilies, you rule, heads, you throw again," said Attolia.The coin dropped. Eugenides looked at it and then showed it to her. "No need," he said. The coin sat in his palm, obverse, showing the lilies of Attolia. He flipped it again and again and again. Each time it landed showing the lilies. ...(Relius)He wanted to dismiss the coin toss as slight of hand. Any circus performer could control the drop of a coin, but he'd been puzzled. The queen had been undismayed; she had seemed almost vindicated in her manner. It had been the King who was more disturbed with each toss of the coin. He'd looked almost sick, Relius thought, by the time he put the coin away....Walking away along the arcade that lay perpendicular to the one where Relius lurked, the king pulled the coin from his pocket. He looked at the gold stater in sudden disgust and pitched it hard between the columns of the arcade into the shrubbery.” ― Megan Whalen Turner, The King of Attolia
“Yeah, well things change. Now I want to be here." Another long, seconds-ticking pause. Dust danced in one fading gleam of gold coming through a low window, following long lazy swirls down to the ground. "With you.” ― Lili St. Crow, Betrayals
“Beauty is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight,or springtime, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you...Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed...Ah! realise your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar...Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing...The world belongs to you for a season...how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last. The common hillflowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to...Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“The first sorrow of autumn is the slow good-bye of the garden that stands so long in the evening—a brown poppy head, the stalk of a lily, and still cannot go.The second sorrow is the empty feet of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold is folded in feathers with its head in a bag.And the third sorrow is the slow good-bye of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers the minutes of evening, the golden and holy ground of the picture.The fourth sorrow is the pond gone black, ruined, and sunken the city of water—the beetle's palace, the catacombs of the dragonfly.And the fifth sorrow is the slow good-bye of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter—firewood, tent poles.And the sixth sorrow is the fox's sorrow, the joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, the hooves that pound; till earth closes her ear to the fox's prayer.And the seventh sorrow is the slow good-bye of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window as the year packs up like a tatty fairground that came for the children.” ― Ted Hughes
“The blessed damozel lean'd outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters still'd at even;She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.” ― Dante Gabriel Rossetti
“I dreamed I stood upon a little hill, And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed Like a waste garden, flowering at its will With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed Black and unruffled; there were white lilies A few, and crocuses, and violets Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun. And there were curious flowers, before unknown, Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one That had drunk in the transitory tone Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades Of grass that in an hundred springs had been Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars, And watered with the scented dew long cupped In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt, A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair. And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across The garden came a youth; one hand he raised To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes Were clear as crystal, naked all was he, White as the snow on pathless mountains frore, Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes A marble floor, his brow chalcedony. And he came near me, with his lips uncurled And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth, And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend, Come I will show thee shadows of the world And images of life. See from the South Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.' And lo! within the garden of my dream I saw two walking on a shining plain Of golden light. The one did joyous seem And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids And joyous love of comely girl and boy, His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy; And in his hand he held an ivory lute With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair, And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute, And round his neck three chains of roses were. But he that was his comrade walked aside; He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight, And yet again unclenched, and his head Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death. A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold With the device of a great snake, whose breath Was fiery flame: which when I did behold I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.' Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.' Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.” ― Lord Alfred Douglas
“Anna held up a small black-bound memorandum book. Cordelia hadn’t even seen her retrieve it. They strode out of the bedroom, Anna waving the book over her head in triumph. “This,” she announced, “will hold the answers to all our questions.”Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book… about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia—a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James—Mariane, Virna, Eugenia—”“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily… ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me.…”“Well, that hardly seems fair,” said James. “Like someone solving a case before Sherlock Holmes. If I were you I would feel challenged, as if to a duel.”Matthew chuckled. Anna gave James a dark look. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said.“Is it working?” said James.“Possibly,” said Anna, regarding the book. Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: Was Ariadne’s name in there? Was she considered a conquest now, or something—someone—else?” ― Cassandra Clare, Chain of Gold
“We don’t have to love anybody who doesn’t love us back.” ― Lily Gold, Nanny for the Neighbors
“No one can look at you in this dress, in all that fire and gold, and start talking about anachronisms. If I were him, I would have said, ‘You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.” ― Richelle Mead, The Golden Lily
“Aubade "There was one summerthat returned many times overthere was one flower unfurlingtaking many formsCrimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late rosesThere was one loveThere was one love, there were many nightsSmell of the mock orange treeCorridors of jasmine and liliesStill the wind blewThere were many winters but I closed my eyesThe cold air white with dissolved wingsThere was one garden when the snow meltedAzure and white; I couldn’t tellmy solitude from love—There was one love; he had many voicesThere was one dawn; sometimeswe watched it togetherI was hereI was hereThere was one summer returning over and overthere was one dawnI grew old watching” ― Louise Glück, Poems, 1962-2012
“In her right hand the lily, in her leftThe letter--all her bright hair streaming down--And all the coverlid was cloth of goldDrawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteAll but her face, and that clear-featured faceWas lovely, for she did not seem as dead,But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.” ― Alfred Tennyson, Idylls of the King
“Holy shit, Seb,” she mumbles. “You’re a freaking nuclear weapon.” It was just as good for her, then. Thank God. I nuzzle into her soft curls, breathing in her sweet apple scent. “My dick causes widespread death and destruction?” “It belongs in a fucking containment facility. Made of concrete. Buried fifty feet underground. Somewhere near the Earth’s core, where no poor, innocent girl will accidentally stumble across it and get fucked to pieces.” She twitches as an aftershock runs through her. “I think I’m dead. My vagina exploded.” I can’t help but laugh, pulling her closer, and she relaxes against me. Slowly, cautiously, her little arms sneak around my waist. It takes me a second to realise what she’s doing. She’s trying to hug me.” ― Lily Gold, Nanny for the Neighbors
“QUALITIESThere is a sun-star rising outside form.I am lost in that other. It's sweet notto look at two worlds, to melt in meaningas honey melts in milk. No one tires of following the soul. I don't recall now whathappens on the manifest plane. I strollwith those I have always wanted to know,fresh and graceful as a water lily, or a rose.The body is a boat; I am waves swaying against it. Whenever it anchors somewhere, I smashit loose, or smash it to pieces. If I getlazy and cold, flames come from my ocean and surround me. I laugh inside them like gold purifying itself. A certain melody makesthe snake put his head down on a line in the dirt....Here is my head, brother: Whatnext! Weary of form, I come into qualities.Each says, "I am a blue-green sea. Diveinto me!" I am Alexander at the outermostextension of empire, turning all my armiesin toward the meaning of armies, Shams.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“And some days, I don’t think of her at all. And those are the worst.” ” ― Lily Gold, Faking with Benefits
“If we could push ajar the gates of life,And stand within, and all God's workings see,We could interpret all this doubt and strife,And for each mystery could find a key.But not today. Then be content, poor heart!God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold:We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart--Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.” ― Mary Riley Smith
“Even though I keep buying more bookshelves, I can never keep up with my book-buying habit. It’s probably a diagnosable addiction at this point.” ― Lily Gold, Three Swedish Mountain Men
