Cottage Core Quotes

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

Beautiful things are quiet beings.

What we outlive becomes our cage eventually.

For the ink is the same each day - but the words are blooming in colours no one has ever seen; for my words are flowers, and your love is a garden.

Everything dies once - only love dies twice.

I kept every letter - only to be reminded of the wrong one's words can cause.

There is no crown without guilt.

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

I kept every letter - only to be remembered of the wrong one's words can cause (to the heart).

Love is too much for our generation.

My love is so fragile; and still it chooses your hands to bloom.

And the home we build for our love ended up keeping it out of its own walls.

The ink I write with  is borrowed from the stars -  too blue to be the sky  and too dark to be its night.

Everything outside of our mind is endless - so why limit oneself?

I wrote so much about our love that the feeling itself turned into art.

We can rest on each other's hearts - yet our dreams keep on wondering. 

The right way to admire something is to love it unconditionally.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

My love dances quietly, so it does not wake the memories of you.

To Autumn" Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Those provinces of masculine knowledge (Latin and Greek) seemed to her a standing ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was she constantly doubted her own conclusions because she felt her own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian.

Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the little girls, her companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed (where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple, and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and days, spoke many homilies.

The woman shocks me to my core, but I love it, and I’m at great risk of falling for her. Or flying.

We’d never again share a horsey-smelling cottage while learning to fly. Who shall separate us? Life, that’s who. I’d had the same feeling when Pa got married, the same presentiment, and hadn’t it come true? In the Camilla era, as I’d predicted, I saw him less and less. Weddings were joyous occasions, sure, but they were also low-key funerals, because after saying their vows people tended to disappear. It occurred to me then that identity is a hierarchy. We are primarily one thing, and then we’re primarily another, and then another, and so on, until death—in succession. Each new identity assumes the throne of Self, but takes us further from our original self, perhaps our core self—the child. Yes, evolution, maturation, the path towards wisdom, it’s all natural and healthy, but there’s a purity to childhood, which is diluted with each iteration. As with that hunk of gold, it gets whittled away.

What our love dreads the most is the fear of never loving - not the thought of following the wrong heart.

She lived with too many ghosts inside her mind - maybe that's why she became one herself in the end.

In June 2020 they post a black square and from then on, they post frolicky Black women in the company's cottage core aesthetic and say they acknowledge they have to do better.

Some bury their feelings  in the hope that flowers bloom; (and too many of us die  while waiting forever).

The mountains fell in love  with the sky -  while knowing the ocean  is much nearer;  and still,  they loved it the same.

Simple feelings surviving while everything else breaks so fast - touching the edges  just to feel something.

I wanted to write about someone I miss -  and even the ink refused to remember - so, in the end, I was left  with nothing but empty pages; with the greatest words in my mind.

Love is a delicately suffering.

Love is a delicately sweet suffering.

Memories are not always a prison - sometimes they can be a key too.

While others feared the ghosts of the past, she fell in love with them.

Art completes our hearts.

The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

I used to paint the world golden while drowning inside the silver of your words.

The lights are gone yet your absence makes even the darkness tremble - for nothing feels as empty as a place without you.

I touched each star you collected for me in vain; Only to see my sky fade  inside the glimmer of a dream.

And I kept each piece that the night offered me - for the night was full of you.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

You can not break my heart - and call the lines you write on art.

A reverie is one soul’s river; but a word is one heart’s vein.

For the ink is the same each day - but the words are blooming in colours  no one has ever seen - for my words are flowers,  and your love is a garden.

We’ve all carried too much; maybe that’s why,  when we lay down something,  it feels like everything is leaving, and yet -  too much remains.

There is a part of you I can't entirely forget - where my memories grow flowers and our past outreaches the gates of my garden; where the words I rather forget become a book of regret.

Champagne lips and tired eyes under endless velvet skies — a love living only for the highs.

And between all  those eternities you realise that art & love my be the only things  that stay long enough  inside one's soul to make an impression.

And if everything we love  is considered art  then our love is  the greatest masterpiece.

To make the ordinary beautiful — that is true art.

EDINBURGH Sombre echoes that mark the dawning that is greying on the hills; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; thoughts are done passing rounds - counting circles inside my head. pale faces of familiar strangers crossing me on the way back to a place that used to feel like home - falling back in time.

VALLEY The valleys climb towards the sky in the early morning hours - seeking horizon's lines; More than the gravestones do with all the memory lined neatly up and half-forgotten - nearly washed away. Our sun is doomed to meet both.

A SIMPLE DRAFT Sometimes a simple draft can make a poet whole that is left with half a heart and feelings for a hundred it would take to bear. A few words can cover the whole world, creating light for the darkest of lines one can call a home or paradise - only a few can also lay bare their soul.

CONFESSION Sometimes I feel like the lines of mine are in the way of every love that tries to cross the last bridge I have left leading to my heart. For I burned every other one while numbing the wounds the fire caused - setting alight to all that is left of me. I must admit that I kept on to the match, long after it burned down and reached my fingertips.

3 A.M. SAINTS It is 3 a.m. again and you are showing me all of your sins by holding up your scars to the starless sky. Painting the entire universe with gold and clothing my velvet heart in purple - we become saints within those unholy hours close to dawn. Still, the world is spinning - even though it feels a little slower now - while the silence carries us away into the next day.

BLOOMING SCARS Those flowers dance around vour marble bust like they were fearing October's kiss - gently they laugh and fall asleep on vour stone veins and cold lips. For they love their names written upon your chest in gold for your heart may be broken, yet it is searching for something untold. They do not know that silver mends the scars that the years formed and the cracks on your skin the sun caused - so silent, still, and weary are the blossoms with whom my love for you is betrothed.

AMBER HEART'S Amber chases the night sky like the stars became fire and gold - and the moon is falling ever closer to the sun he loves so much; So there is not much pain with the world to share, yet we begin to doubt our love and forget our hearts need care. Still, we wish upon the stars to fall faster in love than we did out, so we won't try and pull back for broken hearts are heavy and hard to catch. So while the constellations fade and our souls disappear in their entanglement we hope to learn what it means to truly live again the least.

QUIET WRITING Quiet does not mean that we have nothing to say, or that we leak the power of speech - we rise up and tell our truths even if it feels like people don't like it the least; Writing is our means to have something to tell when we lost our voice suddenly we still stand behind our truths even if it feels like people won't like it. Beautifully are the quiet lines written with thunder and silent boldness - for we can have a revolution inside the pages of nowadays.

THE ART OF EVERYONE And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

STARVING PIECES A heart starved of love will break itself and shed the pieces quickly - so it has less to feed with love.

CHURCH WINDOWS ARE MY MIRRORS Blessed are the scars and the holiness of our hearts. Only saints break it without remorse for sinners, I expect nothing else but playing their part with our gentle soul. Church windows are my mirrors and prayers my gate to heavens end - I find everything by losing myself-nothing was ever lost from the beginning.

FLORENCE Soft emerald valleys lay in crimson light beneath the rolling hills; the waters of the Arno gleam like bronze the city's vein, so still. Each artist at the shore of the river stares in wonder and delight - how far do the lines reach across the bridge, beyond their work? One may seek rest under the cypresses and soft light of the August amber sun - here, at his grave, the city walls lay high around the garden, he knew once as paradise. His dark eyes still seem to pierce the lines of the hills, like he searches for his soul - still; (somewhere between the Arno and the nightfall). The trees - heavily laid with summer's fruit - stand high above the city in marble glance. Clear is now the dark sky - full of shards which dreamers call the stars.

THE MONSTER & THE MAN One obstacle pierces his soul and calls him down the dark road - heavy sighing he must carry on and at last, the thorn is retrieved - with agony in his brown eyes - he suddenly sees: Fever dreams, scarlet on blue velvet, like ink drowning in words - words drowning inside his veins - words that pleaded in vain - words so scarlet... so stained. Empty lines for empty souls that carry too much inside; empty pages for empty hands with nothing else to hide nor to control the beast inside his soul.

THE BALLADE OF SUMMER'S FALL Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

OCTOBER MORNINGS How your eyes gleamed like emeralds once autumn's first day arrived, how amber was the glance that met my tired eyes. Like silk was the light of morning that came through half-shut doors and made a line of gold upon our bedroom floor. Silent creeks empty hallways full of doubt, the room is empty now.

And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

THE SHEETS & THE LIGHT Sombre echoes that mark the dawning greying on the hill; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; Thoughts are done passing rounds counting circles inside my head. Pale mirror-faces crossing me on the way back to the place that felt like home - falling back in time.

COLOURS IN THE MIRROR One day my pride will outlive myself and whatever remains of its colours will be remembered by others - for I was always my true self. I live too little for things that make me dream & care too much for fears that sleep in between the fine lines of my weary mind - so write me gentle words, for it may break. My diversity should not be a mistake but a celebration of identity & guiding light to others who ache to leave the numbness of »pretending-to-be«. We are not broken mirrors that hurt the world by showing our true reflection; we are merely hearts used to rejection - yet, their words will only blur but not break our shine.

PIECES OF LIGHT I see the art of each heart reflecting the mirror that the world put it in front of - for so long that the lines so once so clear became hate for everything we see - blurring out the real; Seeing a thousand lights reflecting one's own means nothing anymore, now that we live by the one offered by the world; The price of being a small part of everyone's standard is being praised so, we may break into one single piece.

ASBOLUTION Our paradise is not made out of worldly things but of the broken fragments of heaven - laced with doubt and forgiveness; Nearly silent we promise each other absolutisation for every promise we ever dared to make with words and deeds - yet I feel incomplete.

WEDNESDAY MIRAGE How far do they reach the rivers of our grieve - far beyond the horizon and deep into a soul; Suffering can feel like drowning in numbness and being awake for days; It's roots growing further then our mind can go and make dark a heart that once was full of light;

THE MEADOWS OF MEDEA 'The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emerald's gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen - and yet they keep so many of us in good company - for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadows still lay weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

OUR OLYMP At this altitude of wavering faith and dying stars our love could not stand a chance; it disappears slowly within my rhymes sky. Fading along the pale darkness like a path of crumbling anecdotes on old crumpled philosophers' notes. I can not see the moon anymore - neither I can imagine the place where it should rest tonight in the sky of ours, where it used to be so bright. The Gods themselves dare not make a home at this height of our hearts, for even the immortals would refuse to hold sacred a place so high. Even our wishes refuse to fall at the mountains feet, still climbing, trembling, and slowly loosing - defeat.

CROSSROAD Lights flicker above the crossroad shining in green now and then for people who won't cross and red for others - which won't stop; The dull grey splits the city in pieces of lines and corners, sometimes outshined by heavy rain and flooded glimpses of chaos; Broken glass upon crimson roads empty silence and nothing to say - while the city sleeps on and will awake, eventually.

ATHENA They fall silently. the steps of her arrival - crossing snow so pale even the morning sky would fade into nightfall's amber; For she has entered the palace of gold - her hair braided with hope and tainted with red leaves which colours remind of a hanged man's rope - for her name is war and her crown is crafted out of grief.

I can not kiss you unless you unraveled every line of my heart and declared with your lips the beauty of our unfading love.

Autumn sharpens the night air and paints the morning gold on the edge of winter’s silver breath, dancing delicately between life and death, between 4 pm and 3 am.

At a certain point, you no longer hope; you just keep on existing. One day at a time, for the rest of your life. And that feeling is not shallow but runs deep— deeper than any happiness or love could ever run. A vein is a mere line poets like me used to write on and a lifeline where sailors swim towards at night. If we keep on writing and giving, we grow on that existing line with millions of words that save hope - and thus give existence and life.