A collection of untitled poetry by some of the world's greatest poets.


All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth.

~ William Wordsworth

Photo: Greet The Morning by Claudia Bartoli McKinney


Albuquerque, NM 2014


Albuquerque, NM 2014

(via tamthewriter)


But do you make this language tremble when you touch its chords? Do you scatter its music like the full moon splits open the mouth of an ocean on the hardened knuckles of weather-beaten rocks?  Do you dance in the eye of its sand-grain storms?

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

Boris Johnson - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner


Boris Johnson - Mayor Of London - reads from The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge for National Poetry Day 2013.

from The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ‘em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
‘Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

Love this poem.

“There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

—   Somerset Maugham (via ellenkushner)

(via neil-gaiman)


"We talk of taxes, and I call you a friend" Sonnets by Edna St. Vincent MillaySecond April, 1921


"We talk of taxes, and I call you a friend"
Sonnets by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Second April, 1921

(via poetrybomb)



British artist Matthew Simmonds carves historic architectural structures into blocks of marble and stone, producing unique and intricate sculptures.

columns? columns. Colummmmmnssssssss. 

Absolutely gorgeous.

(via tamthewriter)


Cloud MotionAdam Marshall Photography Prints | Tumblr | Facebook | Flickr


Cloud Motion
Adam Marshall Photography 

Prints | Tumblr | Facebook | Flickr

(via kiyo)

Possibly the best gif ever.

Possibly the best gif ever.

(Source: labyrinthresource, via tamthewriter)