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Two word meme

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loveunites:

Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, PA

“The cemetery was founded in 1836 by John Jay Smith, a librarian and editor with interests in horticulture and real estate who was distressed at the way his deceased daughter was interred in a Philadelphia churchyard. He and other prominent citizens decided to create a rural garden cemetery five miles north of Philadelphia, a location that was viewed as a haven from urban expansion and a respite from the increasingly industrialized city center. The city later grew past Laurel Hill, but the cemetery retained its rural character.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurel_Hill_Cemetery

(via fuckyeahcemeteries)

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artemida:

Romanesco

[via e g r e g o r e s: extremely cool natural fractals]

sallypants:

Andrew Jackson Jihad - Brave As A Noun

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They’re all gone.  Every single one of them, completely destroyed.  My parents have gone beserk, and I confess I wasn’t far off from that when I found them.  

I don’t understand why anyone would do this.  

Anonymous asked: Between pond and sheepbarn, by maples and watery birches,
Rebecca paces a double line of rust
in a sandy trench, striding on black
creosoted eight-by-eights
In nineteen-forty-three,
wartrains skidded tanks,
airframes, dynamos, searchlights, and troops
to Montreal She counted cars
from the stopped hayrack at the endless crossing:
ninety-nine, one hundred; and her grandfather Ben’s
voice shaking with rage and oratory told
how the mighty Boston and Maine
kept the Statehouse in its pocket
Today Rebecca walks
a line that vanishes, in solitude
bypassed by wars and commerce She remembers the story
of the bunting’d day her great-great-great-
grandmother watched the first train roll and smoke
from Potter Place to Gale
with fireworks, cider, and speeches Then the long rail
drove west, buzzing and humming; the hive of rolling stock
extended a thousand-car’d perspective
from Ohio to Oregon, where men who left stone farms
rode rails toward gold
On this blue day she walks
under a high jet’s glint of swooped aluminum pulling
its feathery contrail westward She sees ahead
how the jet dies into junk, and highway wastes
like railroad Beside her the old creation retires,
hayrack sunk like a rowboat
under its fields of hay She closes her eyes
to glimpse the vertical track that rises
from the underworld of graves,
soul’s ascension connecting dead to unborn, rails
that hum with a hymn of continual vanishing
where tracks cross
For she opens her eyes to read
on a solitary gravestone next to the rails
the familiar names of Ruth and Matthew Bott, born
in a Norfolk parish, who ventured
the immigrant’s passionate Exodus westward to labor
on their own land Here love builds
its mortal house, where today’s wind carries
a double scent of heaven and cut hay

So is this.  Thank you to whoever it is sending these. 

Anonymous asked: The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth-century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.

This is lovely.