#romantic post

Mesele uyum. Mesele denk gelmek.

Mesele birbirine iyi gelmek.

Your hand on my hand on your waist on a quiet park bench Saturday evening

Words do not describe how sweet this moment is

Poems of Solitude and Stillness

Among the Sierra Nevada Mountains by Albert Bierstadt

Solitude

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel and to possess, And roam alone, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos my be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

—George Gordon, Lord Byron, from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

Weymouth Bay by John Constable

A Solitude

Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of sand, Here ivory smooth, here cloven and ridged with flow Of channelled waters soft as rain or snow, Stretch their lone length at ease beneath the bland Grey gleam of skies whose smile on wave and strand Shines weary like a man’s who smiles to know That now no dream can mock his faith with show, Nor cloud for him seem living sea or land.

Is there an end at all of all this waste, These crumbling cliffs defeatured and defaced, These ruinous heights of sea-sapped walls that slide Seaward with all their banks of bleak blown flowers Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope subside Beneath the coil of dull dense waves and hours?

—Charles Algernon Swinburne

Study of a Figure Outdoors: Woman with a Parasol by Claude Monet

Silent Noon

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,— The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:— So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.

—Dante Gabriel Rossetti, from The House of Life

Garden by Claude Monet

On the train we swapped seats, you wanted the window and I wanted to look at you.

Never again, my love Am I ever going to let you go through all the pain alone Nor will I ever watch you cry your pillow wet I am staying by your side like your rib bone If I can't wish away these struggles and test If I can't believe in what everyone says about us Then I will trust in our love till our very last