Reilly, his head high, strode toward his new family.


Meg Cabot (written as Patricia Cabot), from Lady of Skye

Posted by laurbear1990

So I become

my blinding self:

black bird


home, free

    — Remica L Bingham, from “What We Ask of Flesh”

Posted by etruscanpress

We are under way.

    — Elizabeth Bear, from Dust

Posted by uchinaguchi

As evening fell and they settled down into the first stage of their long journey, Tryfan thought to himself that if he ever did become a scribemole, then perhaps, with the Stone’s grace, he might one day record all that Boswell was beginning to tell him now of the story of Bracken and his beloved Rebecca.

    — William Horwood, from Duncton Wood

[Now crazy Nell rambles; and still she will weep,
And, fearless, at night into hovels will creep.]
Fond parents! alas, their affliction is deep,
And vainly they comfort their child

    — John Clare, fromPoems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery

Posted by iskangar

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

    — John Dryden, from “Happy the Man” 

Posted by polishfootnotes