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This beautiful piece from the talented hands of @ivka-p2000 will help tide us all over until Peeta comes into the story.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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We Are Getting to the End
by Thomas Hardy
We are getting to the end of visioning The impossible within this universe, Such as that better whiles may follow worse, And that our race may mend by reasoning.
We know that even as larks in cages sing Unthoughtful of deliverance from the curse That holds them lifelong in a latticed hearse, We ply spasmodically our pleasuring.
And that when nations set them to lay waste Their neighbours' heritage by foot and horse, And hack their pleasant plains in festering seams, They may again, -- not warily, or from taste, But tickled mad by some demonic force -- Yes. We are getting to the end of dreams!
"I shall do one thing in this life – one thing certain – that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die."
Far From the Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
And at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be - and whenever I look up, there will be you.
— Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd (Cornhill Magazine from January to December 1874) (via Ina de Bree)
Thomas Hardy, from Far From the Madding Crowd
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.
-- Thomas Hardy
(Siracusa, Italy)
St Pancras cemetery: the grave of Mary Wollstonecraft and the Hardy tree
A Wife in London
by Thomas Hardy
December 1899
I. She sits in the tawny vapour That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled, Behind whose webby fold-on-fold Like a waning taper The street-lamp glimmers cold.
A messenger's knock cracks smartly, Flashed news in her hand Of meaning it dazes to understand Though shaped so shortly: He — he has fallen — in the far South Land…
II. 'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker, The postman nears and goes: A letter is brought whose lines disclose By the firelight flicker His hand, whom the worm now knows:
Fresh — firm — penned in highest feather — Page-full of his hoped return, And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn In the summer weather, And of new love that they would learn.
