#pour forth thy soul in ecstasy

[pompompurin1028]

Happy birthday Dazai

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time / I have been half in love with easeful Death, / Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, / To take into the air my quiet breath; / Now more than ever seems it rich to die, / To cease upon the midnight with no pain, / While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad / In such an ecstasy! / Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- / To thy high requiem become a sod.

[...]

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell / To toll me back from thee to my sole self! / Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well / As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. / Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades / Past the near meadows, over the still stream, / Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep / In the next valley-glades: / Was it a vision, or a waking dream? / Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

- Excerpt from John Keat's Ode to a Nightingale

Look at this amazing artwork that I got as a surprise commission!!! I've admired Sun's work for years, especially how they draw Dazai and look how amazing it turned out🥺 thought I'd share this piece with you all since it's his birthday!! Been waiting for this comm since April and I'm so happy to finally see it completed it looks amazing🥰 I literally will cherish this comm because I think this is my favourite one! Dazai is characterized so carefully here I'm just orz

[heliza24]

Daniel, Armand, and Keats???

Ok so the incredibly grainy footage of the new teaser has me spiraling! Devils minion on screen! But even more exciting, is Armand describing himself as “easeful death”, presumably to Daniel. Ok Rolin Jones, listen up. I don’t know a ton of literature by heart by I WAS a depressed and then chronically ill teen and early twenties person, who identified maybe a little too hard with romantic poet John Keats. Some of his poems are permanently tattooed on my brain. So I see what the writers are doing here. “easeful death” is from Ode to a Nightingale. The full line is: “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time/I have been half in love with easeful Death”. I mean. Come on.

I reread the poem after watching the trailer last night, and it’s actually SUCH a clever reference. It could practically be written by Daniel about Armand. We already know the writers room is familiar with and willing to reference other classic poets (Emily Dickinson absolutely is a vampire) so I think this is 100% intentional.

The narrator of the poem is tired of the difficulties of life and is longing for death; he speaks to the nightingale as a kind of immortal figure who is free from all cares. He is able to momentarily accompany the nightingale, at least mentally, as it flies and forget all troubles, but must come back to earth by the end of the poem. It’s pretty easy to read this as Daniel talking about Armand.

In fact, the first thing the speaker longs for is not death or the nightingale, but wine to take his mental pain away.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

                        And purple-stained mouth;

         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen

And we know that Daniel was numbing himself with drugs when he first met Louis and Armand. In fact the voiceover in the trailer almost feels like a pitch to Daniel; Armand is saying “I’m better than the best drug you’ve ever had”, effectively.

The speaker is determined to forget what the lucky nightingale (or Armand) “hast never known”:

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

The nightingale doesn’t know about the trials of living and aging, just like Armand. The speaker wants to forget about the inevitable “palsy shakes” that arrive with age. which could easily be a reference to what we now diagnose as Parkinson’s Disease.

At this point in the poem, the speaker tells the nightingale that he will join him in forgetting life not with the help of “Bacchus and his pards” (wine) but with “posey” (poetry). Which makes me think of Daniel using his writing to get closer to the vampires.

The fact that the speaker calls the nightingale “Darkling”! I mean what a perfect name for Armand. In fact I think this whole section is just perfectly about a vampire if you want it to be:

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

         I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

         To take into the air my quiet breath;

                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

                        In such an ecstasy!

         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

         No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

         In ancient days by emperor and clown

Armand was not born for death; he’s seen many an emperor and clown and in fact been both (leader of the coven, pretending to be Rashid). There’s also an emphasis on the nightingale’s song. I don’t know if Armand will be a musician at all in the show, but he and the coven are definitely performers.

In the last stanza, the speaker comes back to himself. He knows that he does not get to escape the burden of life for the ease of death, or at least not yet. It makes me wonder if Daniel will eventually turn down the gift at some point in the devils minion timeline. We know that he rejects Louis' mocking offer to give him the gift in the Dubai timeline.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

                        In the next valley-glades:

         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

The last line and the confusion about whether the time spent with the nightingale is a dream or not makes me think of Daniel waking up from the dream of Polynesian Mary’s.

In summary, Rolin Jones what the fuckkkkk. I’m so so excited about this season and all the Armand/Daniel content we’re about to get.

Oh also, as a bonus, if you want to hear Ben Whishaw recite the entire poem, and you definitely do, here you go:

[chiaroscuro666]

an offering for Lord Lucifer ☆

"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain, while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!"

Ode to a Nightingale -- John Keats

[academicstraykittie]

ode to a nightingale by John Keats

....................................................................

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

         But being too happy in thine happiness,—

                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

                        In some melodious plot

         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

                        And purple-stained mouth;

         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

         What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

                        And leaden-eyed despairs,

         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

                        But here there is no light,

         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

         Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

                        And mid-May's eldest child,

         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

         I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

         To take into the air my quiet breath;

                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

                        In such an ecstasy!

         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

         No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

         In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

                        The same that oft-times hath

         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

                        In the next valley-glades:

         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

[lauvra]

The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode by Thomas Gray

I.1.

         Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.2.

         Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I.3.

         Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.1.

         Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II.2.

         In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II.3.

         Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.1.

         Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III.2.

         Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III.3.

         Hark, his hands thy lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

[till13bkr]

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy.

Ode to a Nightingale

John Keats, 1819

[mezmer]

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

[oftachancer]

I would like to say- I know I am not on Tumblr much (because I spend most of my time either working or writing)- but I would like to say an enormous thank you to all of the wonderful people who have been reading our work. Seriously, the responses that @midnightprelude and I have received in answer to Pour Forth Thy Soul In Ecstasy in particular have been some of the most wonderful I have read. If I had a book jacket to just have “high literature smut” on, I would! We don’t write for the comments, but gosh it’s nice to read them. 🥰

If you’d like to read any of our other work - or any of the completed works that we have in the pipeline - find us on AO3. I also have a co-written series with @johaeryslavellan called Playground Love which has its own share of high literature smut. 🤘🌈

[midnightprelude]

By the Earnest Stars, Ch. 24

Sketch of Rilienus and Dorian by kallielef who you can (and FREAKING SHOULD) support on Patreon!

@oftachancer and I are continuing the story of Rilienus and Dorian ten years after Pour Forth Thy Soul in Ecstasy!

Summary: A decade after fleeing the Order of Argent, Dorian finds himself in Ferelden to try and prevent the coming apocalypse with a specter from his past.

Fandom: Dragon Age Rating: Explicit Word Count: 130k Pairings: Dorian Pavus / Rilienus Maecilia Chapters: 24/? Read more: Pour Forth; Ch. 1; Ch. 24

The camp was in an uproar as the bells clanged overhead, from the two watchtowers near the gates and the one beside the Chantry. They buzzed his teeth, made his shoulders tight.

Rilienus watched Dorian running towards the gates, towards danger, towards the glittering firefly lights of an army coming down the mountain towards the valley. His husband. His brave, fierce, reckless husband.

And, of course, it had begun to snow.

[gwydionmisha]

North And South - Radclyffe Hall

Come with me, sweetheart, into Italy, And press the burning goblet of the south To those cold northern lips, until thy mouth Relents beneath its draft of ecstasy. Drink in the sun, made liquid in the breasts Of purple grapes crushed lifeless for thy wine, Until those over tranquil eyes of thine Glow like twin lakes, on which the noontide rests. Drink in the airs, those languid, vapoury sighs Of Goddesses, whose souls live on in love, Those amorous zephyrs, soft with plaint of dove From flowery trees of Pagan Paradise : Until thy brain grows hazy 'neath the fumes Of pale camellias, passionately white, Of scarlet roses dropping with delight Their wanton petals in a shower of bloom. Drink in the music of some ardent song, Poured forth to die upon the wide, still lake, Until the darkness seems to throb and break In fiery stars whose pulses yearn and long. And then drink in my love; the whole of me, In one deep breath, one vast impassioned kiss, That come what may, thou canst remember this : That thou hast lived and loved in Italy.

[macrolit]

“Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats, read by F. Scott Fitzgerald Note: The entire poems isn’t read, and Fitzgerald seems to be condensing the poem a bit. It’s fabulous nonetheless. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,         But being too happy in thine happiness,—                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                        In some melodious plot         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                        And purple-stained mouth;         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget         What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                        And leaden-eyed despairs,         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee,         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                        But here there is no light,         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet         Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                        And mid-May's eldest child,         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time         I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,         To take into the air my quiet breath;                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                        In such an ecstasy!         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—                   To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!         No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard         In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                        The same that oft-times hath         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell         To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                        In the next valley-glades:         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

[p-isforpoetry]

"Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats (read by Michael Sheen)

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,         But being too happy in thine happiness,—                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees ��                      In some melodious plot         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                        And purple-stained mouth;         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget         What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                        And leaden-eyed despairs,         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                        But here there is no light,         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet         Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                        And mid-May's eldest child,         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time         I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,         To take into the air my quiet breath;                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                        In such an ecstasy!         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!         No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard         In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                        The same that oft-times hath         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell         To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                        In the next valley-glades:         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Source:  thesonnets.tv

[tiffanylamps]

ao3 wrapped [writers edition] - 6, 7, 18 pleasee, thank you, have a great day!

Hey gorgeous, I hope you're doing well!! Thank you for sending me this ask 💛 The ao3 ask game 6) Favorite title you used I've already answered this question here and here. I really like choosing titles for fics, so I'm just going to keep listing off titles until I run out haha . to a nightingale Taken from this poem: “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad. In such an ecstasy!”

-  John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale

. Martyrdom (A wip) Yeah, it's meant to be seen as religious but it's not for a religious/priest au

. Fruit Bowl (a wip) It's pretty self-explanatory... there's a fruit bowl. I've wanted to change this one multiple times but this title has just stuck

7) If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most? I use songs as references and sometimes for my titles quite a lot. But I think the artist that has been most influential in my writing is Daughter. There's something about their music that just screams Beyond Evil to me, and I find myself listening to them when I need inspiration Other artists that I've used as inspiration are: Florence + The Machine Bring Me The Horizon Cigarettes After Sex Can't Swim Wolf Alice Holding Absence IDLES SALTNPAPER O3ohn HLIN Arctic Monkeys Alex Turner O'Brother Royal Blood And many, many more

18) The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year? I would say probably... Lee Dong Sik. I always fear that I'm going to write him in a way that seems more like a caricature than an actual depiction of his character. I do really enjoy writing from his perspective, as I feel there's a lot of depth to the way he views the world, and some of my favourite things I have written have been told from his perspective. I just want to do it right, and as of right now, I don't believe I have. Thank you again, I hope this was interesting to you!!! Hope you have a great day 😊

[spoekelse]

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,—

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

[kantinela]

On Prayer

Then the priestess said, Speak to us of Prayer.

And he answered, saying:

You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance.

For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?

And if it is for your comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart.

And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing.

When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet.

Therefore let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion.

For if you should enter the temple for no other purpose than asking you shall not receive:

And if you should enter into it to humble yourself you shall not be lifted:

Or even if you should enter into it to beg for the good of others you shall not be heard.

It is enough that you enter the temple invisible.

I cannot teach you how to pray in words.

God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips.

And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains.

But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart,

And if you but listen in the stillness of the night your shall hear them saying in silence,

“Our God, who are our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth.

It is thy desire in us that desireth.

It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also.

We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us:

Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all.”

Kahlil Gibran - 1883-1931

[gwenndael]

Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure ! Ô boucles ! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir ! Extase ! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscure Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure, Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir ! La langoureuse Asie et la brûlante Afrique, Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque défunt, Vit dans tes profondeurs, forêt aromatique ! Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique, Le mien, ô mon amour ! nage sur ton parfum. J'irai là-bas où l'arbre et l'homme, pleins de sève, Se pâment longuement sous l'ardeur des climats ; Fortes tresses, soyez la houle qui m'enlève ! Tu contiens, mer d'ébène, un éblouissant rêve De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mâts : Un port retentissant où mon âme peut boire A grands flots le parfum, le son et la couleur ; Où les vaisseaux, glissant dans l'or et dans la moire, Ouvrent leurs vastes bras pour embrasser la gloire D'un ciel pur où frémit l'éternelle chaleur. Je plongerai ma tête amoureuse d'ivresse Dans ce noir océan où l'autre est enfermé ; Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse Saura vous retrouver, ô féconde paresse, Infinis bercements du loisir embaumé ! Cheveux bleus, pavillon de ténèbres tendues, Vous me rendez l'azur du ciel immense et rond ; Sur les bords duvetés de vos mèches tordues Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues De l'huile de coco, du musc et du goudron. Longtemps ! toujours ! ma main dans ta crinière lourde Sèmera le rubis, la perle et le saphir, Afin qu'à mon désir tu ne sois jamais sourde ! N'es-tu pas l'oasis où je rêve, et la gourde Où je hume à longs traits le vin du souvenir ? 

(charles Baudelaire, La chevelure)

The Fleece

O shadowy fleece that falls and curls upon those bare Lithe shoulders! O rich perfume of forgetfulness! O ecstasy! To loose upon the midnight air The memories asleep in this tumultuous hair, I long to rake it in my fingers, tress by tress!

Asia the languorous, the burning solitude Of Africa — a whole world, distant, all but dead — Survives in thy profundities, O odorous wood! My soul, as other souls put forth on the deep flood Of music, sails away upon thy scent instead.

There where the sap of life mounts hot in man and tree, And lush desire untamed swoons in the torrid zone, Undulant tresses, wild strong waves, oh, carry me! Dream, like a dazzling sun, from out this ebony sea Rises; and sails and banks of rowers propel me on.

All the confusion, all the mingled colors, cries, Smells of a busy port, upon my senses beat; Where smoothly on the golden streakèd ripples flies The barque, its arms outspread to gather in the skies, Against whose glory trembles the unabating heat.

In this black ocean where the primal ocean roars, Drunken, in love with drunkenness, I plunge and drown; Over my dubious spirit the rolling tide outpours Its peace — oh, fruitful indolence, upon thy shores, Cradled in languor, let me drift and lay me down!

Blue hair, darkness made palpable, like the big tent Of desert sky all glittering with many a star Thou coverest me — oh, I am drugged as with the blent Effluvia of a sleeping caravan, the scent Of coco oil impregnated with musk and tar.

Fear not! Upon this savage mane for ever thy lord Will sow pearls, sapphires, rubies, every stone that gleams, To keep thee faithful! Art not thou the sycamored Oasis whither my thoughts journey, and the dark gourd Whereof I drink in long slow draughts the wine of dreams?

— George Dillon & Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

(translation source : https://fleursdumal.org/poem/203)