lighthouse of quotes

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
   The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
   Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
   Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
   The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
   The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
   The best lack all conviction, while the worst
   Are full of passionate intensity.

   Surely some revelation is at hand;
   Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
   The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
   When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
   Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
   A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
   A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
   Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
   Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

   The darkness drops again but now I know
   That twenty centuries of stony sleep
   Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
   And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
   Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

—  The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats

“As a child,
I couldn’t sleep alone
In fear
Of monsters
Lurking in the corner
Or ghastly hands
That will snatch me
in the dead of the night.
I rely on oceans
of blankets
And it’s deafening
to drown my worries
For another night.

Now that i’m older
I can’t sleep alone
In fear
Of monsters
Lurking in my mind
Or ghastly hands
That will snatch you
from my arms
in the dead of the night

Beneath the oceans
of blankets
and waves
of troubles
Wrapping me up

The shore
of your arms
and the winds
of your calm breathing
assure me that
This isn’t silence

But peace.”

She is the anchor that keeps me steady
Through every storm in life’s violent sea.
Holding my feet firmly on the ground,
Keeping me safe and sound.

She is the lighthouse, shimmering gold;
So that I don’t stumble in the cold.
Shining bright through every dark day,
Letting me know that I’ll be okay.

—  Safe and Sound - QH
My goodness how you’ll dislike that book [To the Lighthouse]! Honestly you will—Oh but you shan’t read it. Its a ghost between us. Whether its good or bad, I know not: I’m dazed, I’m bored, I’m sick to death: I go on crossing out commas and putting in semi-colons in a state of marmoreal despair. I suppose there may be half a paragraph somewhere worth reading: but I doubt it.
—  Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West (Feb 11st 1927)