plutosbigteeth

“Leave Crete and sweep to this blest temple
Where apple-orchard's elegance
Is yours, and smouldering altars, ample
Frankincense.

Here under boughs a bracing spring
Percolates, roses without number
Umber the earth and, rustling,
The leaves drip slumber.

Here budding flowers possess a sunny
Pasture where steeds could graze their fill,
And the breeze feels as gentle as honey...

Kypris, here in the present blend
Your nectar with pure festal glee.
Fill gilded bowls and pass them round
Lavinshly.”
― Sappho

“But you aren’t really looking!” she exclaimed. “You are—” She flipped through her dictionary. “Wool, gathering!” “That’s true,” I said. “I am woolgathering.” “You are thinking about your friend,” she said. “That’s why you don’t want to listen to me.” “But Rózsa. Don’t you ever like to . . . to do woolgathering?” “No! I am not a dreamer.”
― Elif Batuman, The Idiot

“They’d even made him imitate the different patterns of the bells. A necessity, but he’d felt like a fool chanting, “Bing bong bing bing bong. No, wait, bing bing bong bing bing.”
― Leigh Bardugo, Six of Crows

“Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.”
― Edith Wharton, Artemis to Actaeon and Other Verses