“… our favorite Sayings from Ryke Meadows. My favorite: I fucking love you. Willow’s: I don’t fucking understand Tumblr. Lo’s: Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Lily’s: Fucking fantastic. Rose’s: No means no. Better yet, fuck no. Connor’s: Connor Cobalt is a fucking narcissist.”
―
Krista Ritchie,
Long Way Down
“I rose from marsh mudalgae, equisetum, willows,sweet green, noisybirds and frogs.” ― Lorine Niedecker
“Long after Pacifiique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, "Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.” ― L. M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island
“To my surprise, Joscelin rose. ‘Phedre-’ He began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. ‘Phedre yields with a willow’s grace,’ he said softly. ‘And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet lack all meaning.” ― Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel's Justice
“I squatted by the water as it flowed over the tumbled rocks, thought how far they must've come to have settled in the concrete channel, the stream clear and melodious, the smell of fresh water. I didn't want to think about my mother anymore. I'd rather think about the way the willows and the cottonwoods and palms broke their way through the concrete, growing right out of the flood control channel, how the river struggled to re-establish itself. A little silt was carried down, settled. A seed dropped into it, sprouted. Little roots shot downward. The next thing you had trees, shrubs, birds.My mother once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers. They were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later, they grew fat servicable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred-year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamps that met the ocean. ” ― Janet Fitch, White Oleander
“BOWLS OF FOODMoon and evening star do theirslow tambourine dance to praisethis universe. The purpose ofevery gathering is discovered:to recognize beauty and lovewhat’s beautiful. “Once it waslike that, now it’s like this,”the saying goes around town, andserious consequences too. Menand women turn their faces to thewall in grief. They lose appetite.Then they start eating the fire ofpleasure, as camels chew pungentgrass for the sake of their souls.Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground.Then green justice tenders a spear.Go outside to the orchard. Thesevisitors came a long way, past allthe houses of the zodiac, learningSomething new at each stop. Andthey’re here for such a short time,sitting at these tables set on theprow of the wind. Bowls of foodare brought out as answers, butstill no one knows the answer.Food for the soul stays secret.Body food gets put out in the openlike us. Those who work at a bakerydon’t know the taste of bread likethe hungry beggars do. Because thebeloved wants to know, unseen thingsbecome manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: buryyour seed and wait. After you die,All the thoughts you had will throngaround like children. The heartis the secret inside the secret.Call the secret language, and neverbe sure what you conceal. It’sunsure people who get the blessing.Climbing cypress, opening rose,Nightingale song, fruit, these areinside the chill November wind.They are its secret. We climb andfall so often. Plants have an innerBeing, and separate ways of talkingand feeling. An ear of corn bendsin thought. Tulip, so embarrassed.Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapessits with its feet stuck out.Narcissus gossiping about iris.Willow, what do you learn from runningwater? Humility. Red apple, what hasthe Friend taught you? To be sour.Peach tree, why so low? To let youreach. Look at the poplar, tall butwithout fruit or flower. Yes, ifI had those, I’d be self-absorbedlike you. I gave up self to watchthe enlightened ones. Pomegranatequestions quince, Why so pale? Forthe pearl you hid inside me. How didyou discover my secret? Your laugh.The core of the seen and unseenuniverses smiles, but remember,smiles come best from those who weep.Lightning, then the rain-laughter.Dark earth receives that clear andgrows a trunk. Melon and cucumbercome dragging along on pilgrimage.You have to be to be blessed!Pumpkin begins climbing a rope!Where did he learn that? Grass,thorns, a hundred thousand ants andsnakes, everything is looking forfood. Don’t you hear the noise?Every herb cures some illness.Camels delight to eat thorns. Weprefer the inside of a walnut, notthe shell. The inside of an egg,the outside of a date. What aboutyour inside and outside? The sameway a branch draws water up manyfeet, God is pulling your soulalong. Wind carries pollen fromblossom to ground. Wings andArabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit;they sing and tell what they thinkthey know: so-and-so will travelto such-and-such. The hoopoecarries a letter to Solomon. Thewise stork says lek-lek. Pleasetranslate. It’s time to go tothe high plain, to leave the winterhouse. Be your own watchman asbirds are. Let the rememberingbeads encircle you. I make promisesto myself and break them. Words arecoins: the vein of ore and themine shaft, what they speak of. Nowconsider the sun. It’s neitheroriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. Thismoment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpledinside, soaked in belief-yolk,under the wing of grace, until itbreaks free of mind to become thesong of an actual bird, and God.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“The pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded itself in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset-cloud was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string music has announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“So Recklessly ExposedDecember and January, gone.Tulips coming up. It's time to watchhow trees stagger in the windand roses never rest.Wisteria and Jasmine twist on themselves.Violet kneels to Hyacinth, who bows.Narcissus winks, wondering what willthe lightheaded Willow sayof such slow dancing by Cypress.Painters come outdoors with brushes.I love their hands.The birds sing suddenly and all at once.The soul says Ya Hu, quietly.A dove calls, Where, ku?Soul, you will find it.Now the roses show their breasts.No one hides when the Friend arrives.The Rose speaks openly to the Nightingale.Notice how the Green Lily has several tonguesbut still keeps her secret.Now the Nightingale sings this lovethat is so recklessly exposed, like you.” ― Rumi, The Essential Rumi
“When they were only a few yards from the stone hull, Inej halted and watched the mists wreathing the branches. “He was going to break by legs,” she said. “Smash them with a mallet so they’d never heal….” She took a shaky breath. The words came like a string of gunshots, rapid-fire, as if she resented the very act of speaking them. “I didn’t know if you would come.” Kaz couldn’t blame Van Eck for that. Kaz has built that doubt in her with every cold word and small cruelty. “We’re your crew, Inej. We don’t leave our own at the mercy of merch scum.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. When she turned to him, her eyes were bright with anger. “He was going to break my legs,” she said, her chin held high, the barest quaver in her voice. “Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When I couldn’t scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn’t the Wraith anymore?” Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on. “I would come for you,” he said, and when he saw the wary look she shot him, he said it again. “I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.” The wind rose. The boughs of the willows whispered, a sly, gossiping sound. Kaz held her gaze, saw the moon reflected there, twin scythes of light. She was right to be cautious. Even of him. Especially of him. Cautious was how you survived. At last she nodded, the smallest dip of her chin.” ― Leigh Bardugo, Crooked Kingdom
“You’re not a failure, Uncle,” he said, the words awkward and insufficient in his mouth. “It’s only that we don’t feel safe. A game has a reset button. You have infinite chances for success. Real life is awfully permanent compared to that, and a lot of religious people make it seem even more permanent—one step the wrong way, one sin too many, and it’s the fiery furnace for you. Beware. And then at the same time, you ask us to love the God who has this terrible sword hanging over our necks. It’s very confusing.” “Ah,” said Sheikh Bilal, looking melancholy, “but that’s the point. What is more terrifying than love? How can one not be overwhelmed by the majesty of a creator who gives and destroys life in equal measure, with breathtaking swiftness? You look at all the swelling rose hips in the garden that will wither and die without ever germinating and it seems a miracle that you are alive at all. What would one not do to acknowledge that miracle in some way?” ― G. Willow Wilson, Alif the Unseen
“Death was as silent as the ocean bottom, as sweet as a rose in May.” ― Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
“the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.As they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realized all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces, and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift that the kindly demigod is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and light-hearted as before.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“silver crucifix in a chain high in the air. "NO!" he yelled. "I command you to leave this body! I command you to leave her now!” ― Willow Rose, Five, Six ... Grab Your Crucifix
“All the trees of the world appeared to be rushing towards Aslan. But as they drew nearer they looked less like trees, and when the whole crowd, bowing and curtsying and waving thin long arms to Aslan, were all around Lucy, she saw that it was a crowd of human shapes. Pale birch-girls were tossing their heads, willow-women pushed back their hair from their brooding faces to gaze on Aslan, the queenly beeches stood still and adored him, shaggy oak-men, lean and melancholy elms, shock-headed hollies (dark themselves, but their wives all bright with berries) and gay rowans, all bowed and rose again, shouting, "Aslan, Aslan!" in their various husky or creaking or wave-like voices.” ― C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian
“There was certainly plenty to watch and listen to. The tree which Digory had noticed was now a full-grown beech whose branches swayed gently above his head. They stood on cool, green grass, sprinkled with daisies and buttercups. A little way off, along the river bank, willows were growing. On the other side tangles of flowering currant, lilac, wild rose, and rhododendron closed them in.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew
“Again, the filet bows to the lily.Again, the rose is tearing off her gown...The bud is shy, but the wind removes her veil suddenly, 'My friend!'...And the cove to the willow, 'You are the one I hope for..."The ringdove comes asking, 'Where,where is the Friend?"...Again, the season of Spring has comeAnd a spring-source rises under everything,A moon sliding from the shadows.Many things must be left unsaid because it's late, but whatever conversation we haven't had tonight, we'll have tomorrow.” ― Rumi
“You're not a failure uncle," he said, the words awkward and insufficient in his mouth. "It's only that we don't feel safe. A game has a reset button. You have infinite chances for success. Real life is awfully permanent compared to that, and a lot of religious people make it seem even more permanent-one step the wrong way, one sin too many, and it's the fiery furnace for you. Beware. And then at the same time, you ask us to love the God who has this terrible sword hanging over our necks. It's very confusing.""Ah," said Sheikh Bilal, looking melancholy, "but that's the point. What is more terrifying than love? How can one not be overwhelmed by the majesty of a creator who gives and destroys life in equal measure, with breathtaking swiftness? You look at all the swelling rose hips in the garden that will wither and die without ever germinating and it seems a miracle that you are alive at all. What would one not do to acknowledge that miracle in some way?” ― G. Willow Wilson, Alif the Unseen
“Roses climbed the shed, entwined with dark purple clematis, leaves as glossy as satin. There were no thorns. Patience's cupboard was overflowing with remedies, and the little barn was often crowded with seekers. The half acre of meadow was wild with cosmos and lupine, coreopsis, and sweet William. Basil, thyme, coriander, and broad leaf parsley grew in billowing clouds of green; the smell so fresh your mouth watered and you began to plan the next meal. Cucumbers spilled out of the raised beds, fighting for space with the peas and beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers.The cart was righted out by the road and was soon bowed under glass jars and tin pails of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias, and salvia. Pears, apples, and out-of-season apricots sat in balsa wood baskets in the shade, and watermelons, some with pink flesh, some with yellow, all sweet and seedless, lined the willow fence.” ― Ellen Herrick, The Sparrow Sisters
“I rose from marsh mudalgae, equisetum, willows,sweet green, noisybirds and frogs.” ― Lorine Niedecker
“Long after Pacifiique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, "Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.” ― L. M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island
“To my surprise, Joscelin rose. ‘Phedre-’ He began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. ‘Phedre yields with a willow’s grace,’ he said softly. ‘And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet lack all meaning.” ― Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel's Justice
“I squatted by the water as it flowed over the tumbled rocks, thought how far they must've come to have settled in the concrete channel, the stream clear and melodious, the smell of fresh water. I didn't want to think about my mother anymore. I'd rather think about the way the willows and the cottonwoods and palms broke their way through the concrete, growing right out of the flood control channel, how the river struggled to re-establish itself. A little silt was carried down, settled. A seed dropped into it, sprouted. Little roots shot downward. The next thing you had trees, shrubs, birds.My mother once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers. They were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later, they grew fat servicable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred-year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamps that met the ocean. ” ― Janet Fitch, White Oleander
“BOWLS OF FOODMoon and evening star do theirslow tambourine dance to praisethis universe. The purpose ofevery gathering is discovered:to recognize beauty and lovewhat’s beautiful. “Once it waslike that, now it’s like this,”the saying goes around town, andserious consequences too. Menand women turn their faces to thewall in grief. They lose appetite.Then they start eating the fire ofpleasure, as camels chew pungentgrass for the sake of their souls.Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground.Then green justice tenders a spear.Go outside to the orchard. Thesevisitors came a long way, past allthe houses of the zodiac, learningSomething new at each stop. Andthey’re here for such a short time,sitting at these tables set on theprow of the wind. Bowls of foodare brought out as answers, butstill no one knows the answer.Food for the soul stays secret.Body food gets put out in the openlike us. Those who work at a bakerydon’t know the taste of bread likethe hungry beggars do. Because thebeloved wants to know, unseen thingsbecome manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: buryyour seed and wait. After you die,All the thoughts you had will throngaround like children. The heartis the secret inside the secret.Call the secret language, and neverbe sure what you conceal. It’sunsure people who get the blessing.Climbing cypress, opening rose,Nightingale song, fruit, these areinside the chill November wind.They are its secret. We climb andfall so often. Plants have an innerBeing, and separate ways of talkingand feeling. An ear of corn bendsin thought. Tulip, so embarrassed.Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapessits with its feet stuck out.Narcissus gossiping about iris.Willow, what do you learn from runningwater? Humility. Red apple, what hasthe Friend taught you? To be sour.Peach tree, why so low? To let youreach. Look at the poplar, tall butwithout fruit or flower. Yes, ifI had those, I’d be self-absorbedlike you. I gave up self to watchthe enlightened ones. Pomegranatequestions quince, Why so pale? Forthe pearl you hid inside me. How didyou discover my secret? Your laugh.The core of the seen and unseenuniverses smiles, but remember,smiles come best from those who weep.Lightning, then the rain-laughter.Dark earth receives that clear andgrows a trunk. Melon and cucumbercome dragging along on pilgrimage.You have to be to be blessed!Pumpkin begins climbing a rope!Where did he learn that? Grass,thorns, a hundred thousand ants andsnakes, everything is looking forfood. Don’t you hear the noise?Every herb cures some illness.Camels delight to eat thorns. Weprefer the inside of a walnut, notthe shell. The inside of an egg,the outside of a date. What aboutyour inside and outside? The sameway a branch draws water up manyfeet, God is pulling your soulalong. Wind carries pollen fromblossom to ground. Wings andArabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit;they sing and tell what they thinkthey know: so-and-so will travelto such-and-such. The hoopoecarries a letter to Solomon. Thewise stork says lek-lek. Pleasetranslate. It’s time to go tothe high plain, to leave the winterhouse. Be your own watchman asbirds are. Let the rememberingbeads encircle you. I make promisesto myself and break them. Words arecoins: the vein of ore and themine shaft, what they speak of. Nowconsider the sun. It’s neitheroriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. Thismoment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpledinside, soaked in belief-yolk,under the wing of grace, until itbreaks free of mind to become thesong of an actual bird, and God.” ― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
“The pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded itself in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset-cloud was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string music has announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“So Recklessly ExposedDecember and January, gone.Tulips coming up. It's time to watchhow trees stagger in the windand roses never rest.Wisteria and Jasmine twist on themselves.Violet kneels to Hyacinth, who bows.Narcissus winks, wondering what willthe lightheaded Willow sayof such slow dancing by Cypress.Painters come outdoors with brushes.I love their hands.The birds sing suddenly and all at once.The soul says Ya Hu, quietly.A dove calls, Where, ku?Soul, you will find it.Now the roses show their breasts.No one hides when the Friend arrives.The Rose speaks openly to the Nightingale.Notice how the Green Lily has several tonguesbut still keeps her secret.Now the Nightingale sings this lovethat is so recklessly exposed, like you.” ― Rumi, The Essential Rumi
“When they were only a few yards from the stone hull, Inej halted and watched the mists wreathing the branches. “He was going to break by legs,” she said. “Smash them with a mallet so they’d never heal….” She took a shaky breath. The words came like a string of gunshots, rapid-fire, as if she resented the very act of speaking them. “I didn’t know if you would come.” Kaz couldn’t blame Van Eck for that. Kaz has built that doubt in her with every cold word and small cruelty. “We’re your crew, Inej. We don’t leave our own at the mercy of merch scum.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. When she turned to him, her eyes were bright with anger. “He was going to break my legs,” she said, her chin held high, the barest quaver in her voice. “Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When I couldn’t scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn’t the Wraith anymore?” Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on. “I would come for you,” he said, and when he saw the wary look she shot him, he said it again. “I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.” The wind rose. The boughs of the willows whispered, a sly, gossiping sound. Kaz held her gaze, saw the moon reflected there, twin scythes of light. She was right to be cautious. Even of him. Especially of him. Cautious was how you survived. At last she nodded, the smallest dip of her chin.” ― Leigh Bardugo, Crooked Kingdom
“You’re not a failure, Uncle,” he said, the words awkward and insufficient in his mouth. “It’s only that we don’t feel safe. A game has a reset button. You have infinite chances for success. Real life is awfully permanent compared to that, and a lot of religious people make it seem even more permanent—one step the wrong way, one sin too many, and it’s the fiery furnace for you. Beware. And then at the same time, you ask us to love the God who has this terrible sword hanging over our necks. It’s very confusing.” “Ah,” said Sheikh Bilal, looking melancholy, “but that’s the point. What is more terrifying than love? How can one not be overwhelmed by the majesty of a creator who gives and destroys life in equal measure, with breathtaking swiftness? You look at all the swelling rose hips in the garden that will wither and die without ever germinating and it seems a miracle that you are alive at all. What would one not do to acknowledge that miracle in some way?” ― G. Willow Wilson, Alif the Unseen
“Death was as silent as the ocean bottom, as sweet as a rose in May.” ― Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
“the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.As they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realized all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces, and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift that the kindly demigod is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and light-hearted as before.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
“silver crucifix in a chain high in the air. "NO!" he yelled. "I command you to leave this body! I command you to leave her now!” ― Willow Rose, Five, Six ... Grab Your Crucifix
“All the trees of the world appeared to be rushing towards Aslan. But as they drew nearer they looked less like trees, and when the whole crowd, bowing and curtsying and waving thin long arms to Aslan, were all around Lucy, she saw that it was a crowd of human shapes. Pale birch-girls were tossing their heads, willow-women pushed back their hair from their brooding faces to gaze on Aslan, the queenly beeches stood still and adored him, shaggy oak-men, lean and melancholy elms, shock-headed hollies (dark themselves, but their wives all bright with berries) and gay rowans, all bowed and rose again, shouting, "Aslan, Aslan!" in their various husky or creaking or wave-like voices.” ― C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian
“There was certainly plenty to watch and listen to. The tree which Digory had noticed was now a full-grown beech whose branches swayed gently above his head. They stood on cool, green grass, sprinkled with daisies and buttercups. A little way off, along the river bank, willows were growing. On the other side tangles of flowering currant, lilac, wild rose, and rhododendron closed them in.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew
“Again, the filet bows to the lily.Again, the rose is tearing off her gown...The bud is shy, but the wind removes her veil suddenly, 'My friend!'...And the cove to the willow, 'You are the one I hope for..."The ringdove comes asking, 'Where,where is the Friend?"...Again, the season of Spring has comeAnd a spring-source rises under everything,A moon sliding from the shadows.Many things must be left unsaid because it's late, but whatever conversation we haven't had tonight, we'll have tomorrow.” ― Rumi
“You're not a failure uncle," he said, the words awkward and insufficient in his mouth. "It's only that we don't feel safe. A game has a reset button. You have infinite chances for success. Real life is awfully permanent compared to that, and a lot of religious people make it seem even more permanent-one step the wrong way, one sin too many, and it's the fiery furnace for you. Beware. And then at the same time, you ask us to love the God who has this terrible sword hanging over our necks. It's very confusing.""Ah," said Sheikh Bilal, looking melancholy, "but that's the point. What is more terrifying than love? How can one not be overwhelmed by the majesty of a creator who gives and destroys life in equal measure, with breathtaking swiftness? You look at all the swelling rose hips in the garden that will wither and die without ever germinating and it seems a miracle that you are alive at all. What would one not do to acknowledge that miracle in some way?” ― G. Willow Wilson, Alif the Unseen
“Roses climbed the shed, entwined with dark purple clematis, leaves as glossy as satin. There were no thorns. Patience's cupboard was overflowing with remedies, and the little barn was often crowded with seekers. The half acre of meadow was wild with cosmos and lupine, coreopsis, and sweet William. Basil, thyme, coriander, and broad leaf parsley grew in billowing clouds of green; the smell so fresh your mouth watered and you began to plan the next meal. Cucumbers spilled out of the raised beds, fighting for space with the peas and beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers.The cart was righted out by the road and was soon bowed under glass jars and tin pails of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias, and salvia. Pears, apples, and out-of-season apricots sat in balsa wood baskets in the shade, and watermelons, some with pink flesh, some with yellow, all sweet and seedless, lined the willow fence.” ― Ellen Herrick, The Sparrow Sisters
