hello! i really love your blog so much and seeing it on my dash. do u have any quotes on tenderness/softness in the summer?
“If it could only be like this always — always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe.”
— Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
“Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.”
— Laura Gilpin, “The Two-Headed Calf”
“I am tired, despite my happiness today, a happiness which comes from who knows where, like that of a summer dawn.”
— Clarice Lispector, Near To The Wild Heart
“Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,”
— Christina Rossetti, “Winter: My Secret”
“Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.”
— Adam Zagajewski, “Try to Praise the Mutilated World”
“We’ll dream of a longer summer
but this is the one we have:
I lay my sunburnt hand
on your table: this is the time we have.”
— Adrienne Rich, Contradictions: Tracking Poems, “XXVIII”
“I get to you. My hair the size of my hips. I tell you awkwardly I like your t-shirt. You say it’s just a grey t-shirt. You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”
“Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
These summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.”
— Raymond Carver, “The Best Time of Day”
“I am sitting at my kitchen table waiting for my lover to arrive with lettuce and tomatoes and rum and sherry wine and a big floury loaf of bread in the fading sunlight. Coffee is percolating gently, and my mood is mellow. I have been very happy lately, just wallowing in it selfishly, knowing it will not last very long, which is all the more reason to enjoy it now.”
— Tennessee Williams, from a personal letter
“When the boy came to me one afternoon, the boy who would change what I knew of summer, how deep a season opens when you refuse to follow the days out of it,”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
“Hush, beloved. It doesn't matter to me
how many summers I live to return:
this one summer we have entered eternity.”
— Louise Glück, “The White Lilies”
“I love your name.
I say it again and again
in this summer rain.”
— Carol Ann Duffy, “Name”
“It’s a summer day,
and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world.”
— Frank O’Hara, “Homosexuality”
“He felt doped, on sun and food and salt and contentment, and at night he fell asleep quickly and early, and in the mornings he woke before the others so he could stand on the back porch alone looking over the sea.”
““I’m going,” he tells Jude, but then he doesn’t move. A dragonfly, as shiny as a scarab, hums above them. “I’m going,” he repeats, but he still doesn’t move, and it is only the third time he says it that he’s finally able to stand up from the lounge chair, drunk on the hot air, and shove his feet back into his loafers.
“Limes,” says Jude, looking up at him and shielding his eyes against the sun.
“Right,” he says, and bends down, takes Jude’s sunglasses off him, kisses him on his eyelids, and replaces his glasses. Summer, JB has always said, is Jude’s season: his skin darkens and his hair lightens to almost the same shade, making his eyes turn an unnatural green, and Willem has to keep himself from touching him too much.”
— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
“Still, you filled my lungs
with summer. The town was one tunnel
of green. And I was still a girl, twirling
in the trees, my body softened by August,
my heart humming, a field full of bees.”
— Sarah Murphy, “Letter to the Past After Long Silence”
“What can I tell you? It was a summer that seemed to be making history — their personal history — almost before it began, and they stood back slightly, still in it, but observing it, saying “the summer this,” “the summer that,” all the while it was going on. They became obsessed with a fountain, for example, one they walked past each day, how abundantly it would reach upwards and yet be pouring back down itself the whole time — all winter this fountain had been dry, not saying a word. What more can I tell you? Oh, everything — like how they would walk home in the evenings when the light was soft, anything bad sliding off them, and they would feel owned, completely owned, in a good way, by the air, which would touch them constantly, sometimes urgently, sometimes lightly, just to let them know it was there, and they would think maybe this is what being alive is, when they saw how complicated a tree was and how it wanted them looking at it and saying this, how the color of a particular flower at this particular moment was redder even than the life force, whatever that is, if you could open it up and get right down inside it, if you could put your mouth to it and become as red as that rose even, it was still redder than that, and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves so they wouldn’t do anything except listen to the songs in their heads which were sad ones like nearly all good songs and watch this feeling rolling in, sunshine or rain, we don’t know yet, it’s a good one, it’s the best one, though it has no name.”
“Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
I won’t whisper my own name.
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought:
so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.”
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