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sublim-ature:

Dallas Divide, ColoradoMartynas Milkevicius

sublim-ature:

Dallas Divide, Colorado
Martynas Milkevicius

nationalgeographicmagazine:

Aspen Forest, Colorado
Photograph by Ron Azevedo, My ShotA leaf-covered road entering the deep aspen forests of Colorado

Download Wallpaper (1600 x 1200 pixels)

nationalgeographicmagazine:

Aspen Forest, Colorado
Photograph by Ron Azevedo, My Shot
A leaf-covered road entering the deep aspen forests of Colorado

Download Wallpaper (1600 x 1200 pixels)

waterbaby79:

Wild autumn streams
thefuuuucomics:

ohdangdanii:

I got sent to the hall in Japanese class for laughing so hard at this I hate this post




my sympathy ohdangdanii

thefuuuucomics:

ohdangdanii:

I got sent to the hall in Japanese class for laughing so hard at this I hate this post

my sympathy ohdangdanii

“And your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.”

—   Walt Whitman (via hedonistpoet)

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
                         But O heart! heart! heart!
                            O the bleeding drops of red,
                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
                         Here Captain! dear father!
                            The arm beneath your head!
                               It is some dream that on the deck,
                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
                         But O heart! heart! heart!
                            O the bleeding drops of red,
                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
                         Here Captain! dear father!
                            The arm beneath your head!
                               It is some dream that on the deck,
                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

(Source: khaleesisexual)

suammetuit:

art meme: spring and winter in paris

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” ― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

(via uhhdele)