Vale Of Dreams Quotes

My love, my love Remember the cries When winter died for spring skies They roared and roared But we grabbed our seed And sowed a song Against their greed And Down in the vale Hear the reaper swing, the reaper swing the reaper swing Down in the vale Hear the reaper sing A tale of winter done My son, my son Remember the chains When gold ruled with iron reins We roared and roared And twisted and screamed For ours, a vale of better dreams

Sleep is confusing. Dreams are baffling. The concept of transitioning from one perceived reality to another is a tolerated madness.

To be me is to be different...

We live in a vale of tears...We can have all the dreams we like, but life is hard, implacable, sad.

I can be a builder, not just a destroyer. Eo and Fitchner saw that when I could not. They believed in me. So whether they wait for me in the Vale or not, I feel them in my heart, I hear their echo beating across the worlds. I see them in my son, and, when he is old enough, I will take him on my knee and his mother and I will tell him of the rage of Ares, the strength of Ragnar, the honor of Cassius, the love of Sevro, the loyalty of Victra, and the dream of Eo, the girl who inspired me to live for more.

Life may be a vale of tears, all right, but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, I reckon.

Othalas: Words. What are they but shadows on a page or howling on the wind? They are as ever-changing as the mists below us and it is just as easy to lose sense of yourself among them. I am older than most sorcerers so what I know may, indeed, be close to the truth. Magic, wyrd, words, dreams, they all come from the spirit. Within them lie both power and peril. For to misuse any is to warp your sense of self. To lie in words, or in magic, or in dreams -- that is how you become lost. The lights you see, they were lost long before they came to the Vale.

Such are the foolish dreams of idealistic children who believe that anything can possibly get better over time.

I’m alone with the Dream Stalker, a fate worse than death.

He whispered in one long breath, “I have wanted you from the moment you first walked into my bedchamber, bringing me a bowl of broth from the kitchen. I have wanted you every second of every day and every long, long suffering night. It cut me to the bone so deep that I couldn’t control myself. I couldn’t keep away from you, not even in my dreams.

think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, then we don’t have to be apart for so long. -Winnie the Pooh

I’ll see you later, Talan.” When I glance back, I find his eyes locked on me. “How strange. I like the way it sounds when you say my name.

I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, then we don’t have to be apart for so long. -Winnie the Pooh Winter

We have big dreams - sometimes scary, unforgettable dreams that repeat on the same date every year and are shared by every person in town - but we make those big dreams come true. Remember the clock tower? It took eight years and $23 million to build, and despite its invisibility and constant teleportation, it is a lovely structure that keeps impeccable time.

Es así y punto. Y es así, no sirve soñar. O al menos, más vale no hacerlo, porque daña más. Mejor tener sueños a lo Niko, los seguros, los que te compras. Me voy a comprar unas zapatillas nuevas, las Dreams, así los sueños por lo menos los llevas en los pies y los pisoteas.

Remember that your perception of the world is a reflection of your state of consciousness. You are not separate from it, and there is no objective world out there. Every moment, your consciousness creates the world that you inhabit. One of the greatest insights that has come out of modern physics is that of the unity between the observer and the observed: the person conducting the experiment — the observing consciousness — cannot be separated from the observed phenomena, and a different way of looking causes the observed phenomena to behave differently. If you believe, on a deep level, in separation and the struggle for survival, then you see that belief reflected all around you and your perceptions are governed by fear. You inhabit a world of death and of bodies fighting, killing, and devouring each other. Nothing is what it seems to be. The world that you create and see through the egoic mind may seem a very imperfect place, even a vale of tears. But whatever you perceive is only a kind of symbol, like an image in a dream. It is how your consciousness interprets and interacts with the molecular energy dance of the universe. This energy is the raw material of so-called physical reality. You see it in terms of bodies and birth and death, or as a struggle for survival. An infinite number of completely different interpretations, completely different worlds, is possible and, in fact, exists — all depending on the perceiving consciousness. Every being is a focal point of consciousness, and every such focal point creates its own world, although all those worlds are interconnected. There is a human world, an ant world, a dolphin world, and so on. There are countless beings whose consciousness frequency is so different from yours that you are probably unaware of their existence, as they are of yours. Highly conscious beings who are aware of their connectedness with the Source and with each other would inhabit a world that to you would appear as a heavenly realm — and yet all worlds are ultimately one.

Of course, angels do not exist. It is illegal to consider their existence, or even to give them a dollar when they forget bus money and start hovering around the Ralphs asking for change. The great hierarchy of angels is a foolish dream, and anyway is forbidden knowledge to Night Vale citizens. All of the angels in Night Vale live with Josie out by the car lot. There are no angels in Night Vale.

Pepsi. A refreshing drink. A soft tone playing when you wake up, but then it is gone and you don’t know if you dreamed it. A hallway glimpsed in the back of your refrigerator, but when you look again it is gone. The recurring feeling that your shower is losing faith in you. Desperation. Hunger. Starving, not literally, but still. That hallway again, lined with doors that you know you can open. Your fridge is empty. You haven’t left your home in days, and yet you come and go. This isn’t food. What are you eating? Pepsi: Drink Coke. The

The trees were tinted exquisitely to an uncertain glory as the great red sinking sun flashed its rays on their crystal mantle. The vale of Aylesbury was drowsing beneath a slowly deepening shroud of mist. Above it the hills, their crests rounded and shaded by silver and rose coppices, seemed to have set in them great smoky eyes of flame where the last rays burned in them. 'It is like some dream world,' thought Mr. Cort. 'It is curious how, wherever the sun strikes, it seems to make an eye, and each one fixed on me; those hills, even those windows. But, judging from that mist, I shall have a slow journey home... ("Blind Man's Bluff")

Another way it is unlike other houses is its thoughts. Most houses do not think. This house has thoughts. Those thoughts are not visible in a picture. Nor in person. But they find their way into the world. Through dreams mostly. While a person sleeps, the house might suddenly have a thought: Taupe is not an emotional catalyst. It's practical and bland. No one cries at any shade of taupe. Or another thought like OMG time! What is time even? And the sleeping person might experience that thought too.

O Moon that rid'st the night to wake Before the dawn is pale, The hamadryad in the brake, The Satyr in the vale, Caught in thy net of shadows What dreams hast thou to show? Who treads the silent meadows To worship thee below? The patter of the rain is hushed, The wind's wild dance is done, Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushed About the setting sun: And now beneath thy argent beam The wildwood standeth still, Some spirit of an ancient dream Breathes from the silent hill. Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokes The Ancient Ones of night, Once more the old stone altar smokes, The fire is glimmering bright. Scattered and few thy children be, Yet gather we unknown To dance the old round merrily About the time-worn stone. We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell, Nor mourn our outcast lot, Treading the mazes of a spell By priests and men forgot.

The dream is the progressive realization of worth vale gol.

Más vale prevenir que curar" es una observación valiosa únicamente cuando esas son las alternativas reales.

I like my beautiful things to have a bit of darkness in them.

I can’t look away from his perfect face, from the heat in his eyes. From that intoxicating darkness in them.

I’m sorry, who are you?” “It’s Aisling.” He nods. “Right. Shut the fuck up, Aisling.

There’s only one woman for me, and she is a figment of my imagination, a voice in my thoughts.

Tarquin Vale. The Earl of Ashcroft. Plotocrat. Collector. Devotee of reformist politics. Rake. Debauchee. Hellspawn. Unwitting key to a future greater than she'd dreamed was possible.

And is our fake relationship one of those bad decisions?” He flashes me a disarming smile. “Oh, I’m sure it will be a complete disaster, but I don’t know how yet, and that’s always interesting.

Nia,” he says softly. “If you want to keep your secrets, you can.” “Why?” “Because I trust you.” I blink. Strangely, my eyes are misting. “Why would you trust me?” “I don’t know. For some reason, I feel like I know you.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

And sometimes, and only in spring, a dove from the river's soft vale of lilies will fly as close to you as trust, and a calm in the great reds of autumn will, as often as you need, lie down beside you, raising a brow you've known above the eyes of the only woman you will ever have a need to dream or touch.

I hope his pain fades in death. I did not love him till he was dead; and he should be dead, but he is still my brother. So I pray he finds peace in the vale and that I will see him again one day and we'll embrace as brothers as he forgives me for what I did to him, because I did it for a dream, for our people.

Here at the creek mouth the fields run on to the river, the mud deltaed and baring out of its rich alluvial harbored bones and dread waste, a wrack of cratewood and condoms and fruitrinds. Old tins and jars and ruined household artifacts that rear from the fecal mire of the flats like landmarks in the trackless vales of dementia praecox. A world beyond all fantasy, malevolent and tactile and dissociate, the blown lightbulbs like shorn polyps semitranslucent and skullcolored bobbing blindly down and spectral eyes of oil and now and again the beached and stinking forms of foetal humans bloated like young birds mooneyed and bluish or stale gray. Beyond in the dark the river flows in a sluggard ooze toward southern seas, running down out of the rainflattened corn and petty crops and riverloam gardens of upcountry landkeepers, grating along like bonedust, afreight with the past, dreams dispersed in the water someway, nothing ever lost.

Do you fall asleep easily, or does sleep elude you?” For a moment, it strikes me as such a strange question. But I suppose to the dream stalker, sleep is his domain. Taking Meriadec’s advice, I answer honestly. “Lately, I’m awake all the time. I drink herbal teas to help me sleep, but they hardly work. Most of the time, I fall asleep after the sun rises, but it’s a light, dreamless sleep.” “Well, that won’t do at all. I think you have too many responsibilities here. At least when you’re pretending to be my mistress, you’ll be free of them. And free of all your work.” “And you? How do you sleep?” I ask. I actually know a lot of these random details about Talan. I’ve been hearing his thoughts for years. The battles, the sex, the women moaning his name with their fingers threaded into his hair…and the intense loneliness when it’s time to sleep. “I seek company to sleep because I cannot stand to be alone,” he says in a honeyed murmur.

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, ocean, and all the living things that dwell within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, the torpor of the year when feeble dreams visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep holds every future leaf and flower; the bound with which from that detested trance they leap; the works and ways of man, their death and birth, and that of him and all that his may be; all things that move and breathe with toil and sound are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, remote, serene, and inaccessible: and this, the naked countenance of earth, on which I gaze, even these primeval mountains teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, slow rolling on; there, many a precipice frost and the sun in scorn of mortal power have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, a city of death, distinct with many a tower and wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin is there, that from the boundaries of the sky rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down from yon remotest waste, have overthrown the limits of the dead and living world, never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; their food and their retreat for ever gone, so much of life and joy is lost. The race of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, and their place is not known. Below, vast caves shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, which from those secret chasms in tumult welling meet in the vale, and one majestic river, the breath and blood of distant lands, for ever rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves, breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.

You may begin the ceremony, Mavlys.” Vale cut me off, his hands landing heavily on my shoulders. I opened my mouth to try again, but Vale’s hand flashed up from my shoulder, wrapping around the lower half of my face. “Nod your consent if you’re ready, Tempest.” Elrik swallowed, glancing at me nervously. “T-That’s n-not really how consent—” he stuttered, but Vidrol cut him off. “Quiet. I can’t hear the Tempest. She’s trying to give her consent. What was that, darling?” With a glare at him and a sharp elbow swung back at Vale—which he ignored—I eventually bobbed my head. “Excellent,” Vale growled, releasing me. “Get on with it, then.

Sand burns outside their windows in every direction. Compass needles spin in their twinned minds: everywhere they look, they are greeted by horizon, deep gulps of blue. People think of the green pastoral when they think of lovers in nature. Those English poets used the vales and streams to douse their lusts into verse. But the desert offers something that no forest brook or valley ever can: distance. A cloudless rooming house for couples. Skies that will host any visitors’ dreams with the bald hospitality of pure space. In terms of an ecology that can support two lovers in hot pursuit of each other, this is the place; everywhere you look, you’ll find monuments to fevered longing. Craters beg for rain all year long. Moths haunt the succulents, winging sticky pollen from flower to flower.

When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.— Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. Hard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my purpose better than any other. I sometimes left a good fire when I went to take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or four hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing.

Poet's Note: Kindly do not use my poem without giving me due credit. Do not use bits and pieces to suit your agenda of Kashmir whatever it may be. I, Srividya Srinivasan as the creator of this poem own the right to what I have chosen to feel about the issue and have represented all sides to a complex problem that involves people. I do not believe in war or violence of any kind and this is my compassionate side speaking from all angles to human beings thinking they own only their side to the story. THIS POEM IS THE ORIGINAL WORK OF SRIVIDYA SRINIVASAN and any misuse by you shall be considered as a violation of my copyrights and legally actionable. This poem is dedicated to all those who have suffered in Kashmir and through Kashmir and to not be sliced and interpreted to each one's convenience. ---------------------------- Weep softly O mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him anymore. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they seal our soulless dreams. The guns are out, O mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him O mother, I have no courage to face what I will find. For, I need to tend to this little one beside, with bound eyes that see no more. ----- Weep for the home we lost O mother, Weep for the valley we left behind, the hills that once bore our names, where shoulder to shoulder, we walked the vales, proud of our heritage. Hunted out of our very homes, flying like thieves in the night, abandoning it all, fearful for the lives of our men, fearful of our being raped, our children killed, Kafirs they called us O mother, they marked our homes to kill. We now haunt the streets of other cities, refugees in a country we call our own, belonging nowhere, feeling homeless without the land we once called home. ------------- Weep loudly O mother, for the nation hears our pain. As the fresh flag moulds his cold body, I know his sacrifice was not in vain. We need to put our chins up, O mother and face this moment with pride. For blood is blood, and pain is pain, and death is final, The false story we must tell ourselves is that we are always the right side, and forget the pain we inflict on the other side. Until it all stops, it must go on, the dry tears on either side, Every war and battle is within and without, and must claim its wounds and leave its scars, And, if we need to go on O mother, it matters we feel we are on the right side. We need to tell ourselves we are always the right sight... We need to repeat it a million times, We are always the right side... For god forbid, what if we were not? --- Request you to read the full poem on my website.

Wessex Heights There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand, Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly, I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be. In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend – Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend: Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I, But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky. In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways – Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days: They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things – Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings. Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was, And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this, Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis. I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the moon, Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune; I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast. There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night, There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud of white, There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near, I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear. As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers, I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers; Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know; Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go. So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west, Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest, Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me, And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.

It is often said that the separation of the present reality from transcendence, so commonplace today, is pernicious in that it undermines the universe of fixed values. Because life on Earth is the only thing that exists, because it is only in this life that we can seek fulfillment, the only kind of happiness that can be offered to us is purely carnal. Heavens have not revealed anything to us; there are no signs that would indicate the need to devote ourselves to some higher, nonmaterial goals. We furnish our lives ever more comfortably; we build ever more beautiful buildings; we invent ever more ephemeral trends, dances, one-season stars; we enjoy ourselves. Entertainment derived from a nineteenth-century funfair is today becoming an industry underpinned by an ever more perfect technology. We are celebrating a cult of machines—which are replacing us at work, in the kitchen, in the field—as if we were pursuing the idealized ambience of the royal court (with its bustling yet idle courtiers) and wished to extend it across the whole world. In fifty years, or at most a hundred, four to five billion people will become such courtiers. At the same time, a feeling of emptiness, superficiality, and sham sets in, one that is particularly dominant in civilizations that have left the majority of primitive troubles, such as hunger and poverty, behind them. Surrounded by underwater-lit swimming pools and chrome and plastic surfaces, we are suddenly struck by the thought that the last remaining beggar, having accepted his fate willingly, thus turning it into an ascetic act, was incomparably richer than man is today, with his mind fed TV nonsense and his stomach feasting on delicatessen from exotic lands. The beggar believed in eternal happiness, the arrival of which he awaited during his short-term dwelling in this vale of tears, looking as he did into the vast transcendence ahead of him. Free time is now becoming a space that needs to be filled in, but it is actually a vacuum, because dreams can be divided into those that can be realized immediately—which is when they stop being dreams—and those that cannot be realized by any means. Our own body, with its youth, is the last remaining god on the ever-emptying altars; no one else needs to be obeyed and served. Unless something changes, our numerous Western intellectuals say, man is going to drown in the hedonism of consumption. If only it was accompanied by some deep pleasure! Yet there is none: submerged into this slavish comfort, man is more and more bored and empty. Through inertia, the obsession with the accumulation of money and shiny objects is still with us, yet even those wonders of civilization turn out to be of no use. Nothing shows him what to do, what to aim for, what to dream about, what hope to have. What is man left with then? The fear of old age and illness and the pills that restore mental balance—which he is losing, inbeing irrevocably separated from transcendence.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. …yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast, They alway must be with us, or we die. For ‘twas the morn: Apollo’s upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied, that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; Man’s voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of nature’s lives and wonders puls’d tenfold, To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. With a faint breath of music, which ev’n then Fill’d out its voice, and died away again. Within a little space again it gave Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad vallies,—ere their death, oer-taking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay Watching the zenith, where the milky way Among the stars in virgin splendour pours; And travelling my eye, until the doors Of heaven appear’d to open for my flight, I became loth and fearful to alight From such high soaring by a downward glance: So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, Spreading imaginary pinions wide. When, presently, the stars began to glide, And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveliest moon, that ever silver’d o’er A shell for Neptune’s goblet: she did soar So passionately bright, my dazzled soul Commingling with her argent spheres did roll Through clear and cloudy, even when she went At last into a dark and vapoury tent— Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train Of planets all were in the blue again. To commune with those orbs, once more I rais’d My sight right upward: but it was quite dazed By a bright something, sailing down apace, Making me quickly veil my eyes and face: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, If human souls did never kiss and greet?

You’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more, sweetheart. Don’t ever doubt that.” Vic nuzzled his hair. “Does it bother you that I can’t fertilize your eggs? I don’t want you to regret staying with me when you could be with another swan and hatch young with them.” Kellan pulled back, drawing his eyebrows together. “But, you don’t know that for sure. Why would we be fated mates if you can’t fertilize my eggs? I think there’s still a chance.

Vic gazed up at Kellan. His mate’s breathing was slow, but steady, and somewhere deep inside Vic believed that Kellan was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. The gods would watch over his beautiful swan and keep their egg safe. Soon, Vic’s eyes grew heavy, but he fought against the sleep trying to take him. No, not yet. Just a little longer. He didn’t want Kellan to go through the egg-laying all by himself, not when Vic could be there and offer encouragement, to share in the moment and reassure him if he became scared. The wool blanket was doing its job and Vic had warmed up nicely. His eyelids fluttered, so he tried to keep his focus on Kellan, tried to keep from drifting off. Kellan. My precious mate, my love… The song of a cardinal invaded Vic’s dream and he tried to ignore it in favor of the imaginary outing he was enjoying with Kellan on the lake during some future summer. We can bring the baby. I bet it will be a water baby, same as its daddy. The slow trill of the winter bird cut through Vic’s peaceful world and his eyes flew open, his brain registering it was morning right as his eyes adjusted to the light. He yelped, his arms flailing for a second before he tumbled off the bed and landed with a thump onto the braided rug. Vic lay there for a moment, his heart pounding, trying to work out whether he was still in a dream or truly awake. He sucked in a deep breath, then pushed up from the floor. He peered over the edge of the bed, his eyes widening at the scene before him. A majestic swan, pure white and breathtakingly beautiful, was perched on the blanket nest, its beak tucked under one wing. Vic smiled, relief flooding him as he realized what had happened. Kellan. His mate had shifted. Whatever had been wrong was right again

Sweetheart?” Vic encouraged him to look in his eyes. “Aren’t you happy about the egg?” What’s wrong with me? Finn did me a favor. “The happiest I’ve ever been, Vic. I don’t care about Finn or my herd or any of that anymore. They were never my true family, but you are. And Vale Valley is my genuine home. The beginning of the best day of my life was when Finn pushed me out of that truck. Now I have more joy than I’d ever dreamed possible.” Vic claimed his mouth in a deep kiss and it wasn’t until Dr. Arthur loudly cleared his throat that they were pulled from their private world. Kellan wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Um, excuse us.” Vic chuckled. “I think he understands.

But on several occasions when the opportunity had been there and all that had been required of her was to say yes, she's said no instead. Something of great magnitude had been lost, some fundamental ability within her had shut down for good, leaving her incapable of risking commitment. (less)

The vague yet menacing government agency would like to remind you that UFOs are totally not a thing. They remind you that UFOs are merely weather balloons, and further, that weather balloons are merely misplaced clouds, that clouds are merely dreams that have escaped our sleep, that sleep is merely a practice for death, that death is merely another facet of our world, no different from, say, sand or bicycles, and that the great glowing earth is merely the last thoughts of a dying man, laughing and shaking his head weakly at the improbability of it all. Remember, it’s not just the law. It’s an

Wo aakey khwaab mein taskine-iztiraab to de, Vale mujhe tapishe-dil majaale-khwaab to de. [Taskine-iztiraab: peace to a restless mind; tapishe-dil : heart in turmoil; majaale-khwab : strength to sleep] She comes in my dream and relieves me of my restlessness but first my agitated heart should let me sleep and dream.

I could believe in them. In Andel’s strange protectiveness, Vidrol’s daring hope, Vale’s strength, Fjor’s aching weakness, and the fact that Helki was … mostly still just an asshole.

For fifty years I plodded through the vale of lust and strife, Then through my dreams there flashed a ray of the old sweet peaceful life. No scarlet-tasseled hat of state can vie with soft repose; Grand mansions do not taste the joys that the poor man’s cabin knows. I hate the threatening clash of arms when fierce retainers throng, I loathe the drunkard’s revels and the sound of fife and song; But I love to seek a quiet nook, and some old volume bring Where I can see the wildflowers bloom and hear the birds in spring.

in the morning, when I heard the awful moaning beside me. At first, I thought it was part of my dream. I’d had the same one for eight years now. I was lucky in that it stopped before I had to witness the murders of my mother and brothers. That didn’t stop my heart from racing. This time, though, Nico was there. He’d moan each time my father

THE CHARM OF THE STONES CONSECRATED TO DIANA To find a stone with a hole in it is a special sign of the favour of Diana, He who does so shall take it in his hand and repeat the following, having observed the ceremony as enjoined: — Scongiurazione della pietra bucata. Una pietra bucata U ho trovato; Ne ringrazio il destin, E k) spirito che su questa via Mi ha portata, Che passa essere il mio bene, E la mia buona fortuna! Mi alzo la mattina al alba, E a passegio me ne vo Nelle valli, monti e campi, La fortuna cercarvo Della ruta e la verbena, Quello so porta fortuna Me lo tengo in senno chiuso £ saperlo nessuno no le deve, £ cosi cio che commendo, " La verbena far ben per me ! Benedica quella strege! Quella fata che mi segna!" Diana fu quella Che mi venne la notte in sogno E mi disse : " Se tu voir tener Le cattive persone da te lontano, Devi tenere sempre ruta con te, Sempre ruta con te e verbena!" Diana, tu che siei la regina Del cielo e della terra e dell* inferno, E siei la prottetrice degli infelici, Dei ladri, degli assassini, e anche Di donne di mali afifari se hai conosciuto, Che non sia stato V indole cattivo Delle persone, tu Diana, Diana li hai fatti tutti felici! Una altra volta ti scongiuro Che tu non abbia ne pace ne bene, Tu possa essere sempre in mezzo alle pene^ Fino che la grazia che io ti chiedo Non mi farai! THE CHARM OF THE STONES Invocation to the Holy-Stone} I have found A holy-stone upon the ground. O Fate! I thank thee for the happy find, Also the spirit who upon this road Hath given it to me; And may it prove to be for my true good And my good fortune I I rise in the morning by the earliest dawn, And I go forth to walk through (pleasant) vales. All in the mountains or the meadows fair, Seeking for luck while onward still I roam, Seeking for rue and vervain scented sweet, Because they bring good fortune unto all. I keep them safely guarded in my bosom, That none may know it—'tis a secret thing. And sacred too, and thus I speak the spell: " O vervain ! ever be a benefit, And may thy blessing be upon the witch Or on the fairy who did give thee to me ! " It was Diana who did come to me, All in the night in a dream, and said to me: " If thou would'st keep all evil folk afar, Then ever keep the vervain and the rue Safely beside thee I" I hole ii . But such a slone is IS really a claim to the ARADIA Great Diana I thou Who art the queen of heaven and of earth, And of the inferna! lands—yea, thou who art Protectress of all men unfortunate, Of thieves and murderers, and c Who lead an evil life, and yet hast known That their nature was not evil, thou, Diana, Hast still conferred on them some joy in life.' Or I may truly at another time So conjure thee that thou shalt have no peace Or happiness, for thou shalt ever be In suffering until thou grantest that Which 1 require in strictest faith from thee! [Here

We flopped like landed fish down the shallow submerged steps, splashing and sinking into the warm, scented waters beneath the fantastical glass and mural ceiling. And it was the closest I’d been to happiness in months. The closest since Mael. I closed my eyes and sank into the soothing warmth, feeling my muscles melt like they had when he’d kissed me that morning in the vale. I’d almost forgotten what that had felt like. The steam rose off the surface of the water until I couldn’t see old Gruoch where she sat on her bench. Even Elka, drifting motionless on the other side of the pool, was just a shadow. I could have stayed there forever, my hair floating out all around me, wrapped in mist and dreaming and the scent of flowers. I barely felt the tears sliding down my cheeks.

Talan stares at my wound again, and the temperature in the room cools even further. Thunder rumbles across the horizon outside, and hail slams against the window.

Anyway, not to worry. You might loathe me, but you are mine now, and if anyone tried to burn you at the stake, I’d make them wish they were never born.

Stilton is almost as good as goat entrails.” “You’re wasted here,” I say. “You should be in marketing.

Tana grabs the plate, staring at it. “I don’t eat it, but I can see the future in cheese. Especially if it’s ripe like this.” “I’m just going to have a little nibble.” Serana grabs a piece and pops it in her mouth. “Serana!” Tana yanks the cheese plate away. “You just ate the fate of the Italian military.

He glances up at me, searching my eyes, as if he’s seeing right into my soul, discovering my secrets, taking me apart one piece at a time.

Dayton grabs a knot of my hair, tugs. “Are you making fun of my cock, Blossom?” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” “Good.” He draws me closer until his lips are by my ear. “Because this cock is going to fucking claim you, going to make you scream my name, going to fill you with so much cum it’ll be leaking down your legs, and there won’t be a soul in the Enchanted Vale that won’t recognize my scent on you.

I would be a masochist to dwell on what other people thought of me. I’ve been despised since I took my first breath. So, I don’t really give a fuck what they think.

Anyway, not to worry. You might loathe me, but you are mine now, and if anyone tried to burn you at the stake, I’d make them wish they were never born.

He’ll be designing your wedding dress. I can’t marry Arwenna if I’m already married.” He’s searching my face, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. “I’m afraid we only have a few hours until we wed. Nia, this is the only way.

All eyes are on me—including Talan’s. At the center of the tables, on the far side of the hall, he’s lounging in a chair. His rings and lopsided crown gleam in the candlelight. He wears a black jacket with silver buttons that sleekly fits his muscular body.

I need to know what the assassin looked like.” “He was dressed as a soldier.” “Shall I have them all killed, then? Every soldier working last night? Their entrails drawn out of them until someone confesses?

I can see your mind running. Wondering how you should handle this. So, let me clarify. There’s only one way. My way. If you think you can disappear, I’ll remind you who I am. I’m Prince Talan de Morgan, the Dream Stalker, the man who tortures people for fun. I can find any soul in Brocéliande when they close their eyes. And unless you intend to remain eternally awake, I will always find you. Don’t make me chase you, Nia. You won’t enjoy what I’ll do when I find you.

My pulse races as he drags his gaze from me and stands, removing his belt in one smooth movement.

I like my beautiful things to have a bit of darkness in them.

I’ve spent a lot of time pretending to be something I’m not,” I say. “Not just here. At home, too. I pretend like I have everything together, that I’m in control, that everything is fine. I’m very skilled at hiding what I’m feeling.” “Because your father isn’t in control, so you pretend to be.

I suspect that while we’re together, Talan and I will be playing a deadly game of hide and seek with each other.

to whom I pledge my eternal devotion.

if I fucked you for real, Nia, I can assure you that you would not need to fake it.

Careful, darling.

People think of the green pastoral when they think of lovers in nature. Those English poets used the vales and streams to douse their lusts into verse. But the desert offers something that no forest brook or valley ever can: distance. A cloudless rooming house for couples. Skies that will host any visitors’ dreams with the bald hospitality of pure space.

Quess’s beak shook. Her whole body shook. There were silver tears coming out of her eyes as she looked at Urious. “Y-y-you killed my children,” she managed. Urious’s eyes were wide, in pain or shock, Tresh didn’t know. “You k-k-killed my mate.” Urious nodded. Blood pooled behind him, a mixture of his own and Vitra’s. Tresh gently gripped the spear in her paws and pulled it out of Vitra. The dead gryphon’s body fell atop Urious. Tresh tried to take the spear from Quess, but her brother’s mate pulled it away and placed it against Urious’s throat. The point of the spear was as unsteady as Quess. “I still hear the screams of gryphlets and chicks when I sleep,” Urious said. “I knew one of their parents would find me. It’s okay. Please, end this. I’m so sorry.” Despite everything Tresh had been thinking since the attack, she found herself putting a paw over Quess’s talons. “The dead cannot forgive,” she said. The dreams of her nieces and nephews played in her head. “We must forgive for them.” Quess quivered. “They are restless in the ocean of s-s-stars.” This time it was Bruen who put his talons on Quess’s shoulders. “This is how you quiet them. You do what they cannot.” Tresh’s heart beat in her chest, over and over, a hundred times before Quess’s grip slackened. Bruen carefully took the javelin from her and held her while she cried.

Ash nodded. A moment later, sleep overtook him and he began to dream. He stood in the gamescape of Immortal Defenders, Vale in armor at his side.

If you put aside your dreams in lieu of safety, or comfort, what will that accomplish? Not much. Because in the end you’ll be unhappy. But hey! You’ll be safe!” - Truth

I sleep with a dream of the past. My hand curled in the tendrils of her hair. About us the vale lay quiet in slumber. Even the children did not yet stir. The birds rested on knotted limbs in the pinewood nearby, and I heard nothing but her breath and the crackling of the old fire. The bed smelled of her. No scent of flowers or perfume. Just the earthy musk of her skin, of the oils in the hair around my hands, of her hot breath as it warmed my cheek.

A quienes les gustan, por ejemplo, los banquetes y los autos de lujo, y así otras cosas, no se metan en los movimientos populares ni en política (y, por favor, tampoco en el seminario). Un estilo de vida sobrio, humilde, dedicado al servicio vale mucho más que miles de seguidores en las redes sociales.

Hola,” my daughter offered meekly. “¿Cuál es su nombre?” the woman asked. What is her name? “Stella.” “Hmm?” “Stella.” The woman still looked puzzled. Drew jumped in. “Estella.” She broke into a smile. “Ah, Estella.” “Sí.” I smiled, too. “Y tu hijo?” she asked, running her hand over our son’s blond head. He shook his head impatiently. “Cole,” I replied. “Col?” she asked, again looking puzzled. “Sí.” Everyone wanted to call Stella “Estella,” and sometimes she’d get mistaken for chela, the Mexican slang for beer. Cole, on the other hand, is a Spanish word, at least how it’s pronounced. It’s Catalan as well, which is the second language in Barcelona (or first, depending on who you ask). Cole is pronounced like the Spanish word col and means “cabbage.” We accidentally named our son after the slightly smelly vegetable they put in cocidos and ensaladas. Meet our children: Beer and Cabbage. Apparently it didn’t matter, as the abuelita quickly launched into a story about her three children and eight grandchildren (who all lived outside the city, sadly) and her hand injury that had only recently healed. I nodded and Drew offered, “Sí, sí, vale, vale,” the usual Spanish murmurs of agreement. The bus stopped and we said our good-byes as she departed. After the bus had started rolling again, I leaned over to Drew and whispered, “If we have another baby, we are naming her Alejandra—or Javier if it’s a boy—something so Spanish no one ever asks us twice.” He grinned. “Agreed.

Letting him fuck me for real could destroy any shred of objectivity I have.

There, they finally admit their feelings for each other, and they bang.

This hotel . . .” “Beautiful, isn’t it?” “It’s a dream.” Jasper hummed. “I prefer a quaint little hotel in Quincy, Montana.” “Funny.” I looked up, finding his gaze waiting. I’d expected to see some teasing there, but he was dead serious, wasn’t he? He liked The Eloise better than this? I loved Jasper for that. I loved Jasper. Somewhere along the way, I’d fallen in love with my husband.

Was that my calling? I’d never felt like I had some grand purpose in life. I was a man content to help someone else achieve their dreams. First Foster. Then Eloise.

I own a hotel.” He chuckled. “You own a hotel.” “Oh my God, I own a hotel. My hotel.” Jasper tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Dream come true?” Only because he was here. “And then some.

O world of wonders! (I can say no less), That I should be preserved in that distress That I have met with here! O blessed be That hand that from it hath deliver'd me! Dangers in darkness, devils, hell, and sin Did compass me, while I this vale was in: Yea, snares, and pits, and traps, and nets, did lie My path about, that worthless, silly I Might have been catch'd, entangled, and cast down; But since I live, let JESUS wear the crown.

I don’t know. For some reason, I feel like I know you.” I swallow hard. No one knows me, though, do they?

Why is your heart beating so fast?” he murmurs. I curl my fingers around the blankets. “Don’t you know everyone is scared of you?” Silence falls in the darkened room. Outside, lightning cracks and thunder rolls over the horizon. “Yes,” he says quietly, “but I didn’t think you were.