alethiometrix:

(Source: Caroline, Master Member in the eCauldron.net forum)

Aine of the summer’s warmth
Be with us, and grant thy aid
Aine of the bright cloak,
Be with us, and grant thy blessing
Aine of the surest step
Be with us, and guide our footsteps
Aine of the best heart,
Be with us, and grant us joy

We will wash our faces
In the nine rays of the sun
‘Neath the sunwoven cloak of the Lady of Light
Let us find peace
In the nine rays of the sun
We will wash our faces
In the light of bright bloom
Let us find joy
We will wash our faces
In the nine rays of the sun
In the bounty of the generous heart
Let us find grace

Be we blessed in our rising up
And in our lying down
Be we blessed in our waking
And in our sleeping
Be we blessed in our coming in
And in our going out
Light before us
Light behind us
Light above us
Light below us
Light within us
Light without
Light about us
Bright about us shall ever be
the cloak of Aine Cli

edderkopper:

I have nothing but respect for the
Morrígna, but I’m kind of bitter that there’s more cool art of them than all the other Irish deities combined.

Is it just that ravens are dark and edgy? Where’s my art of Manannán looking badass with a sea hare?

whilemyassignmentssoftlyweep:

Every time I go to the sea recently

Me: hello I love you

Sea: I love you, come with me down to the depths where the darkness and pressure are infinitely crushing, where no person has touched, where time does not exist

Me: but I will die?

Sea: …your point?

foundcarcosa:

violentwavesofemotion:

I don’t speak with anyone for a week. I just sit on a stone by the sea.

Anna Akhmatova, from Plantain

… and there is something about the achingly bright expanse of blue that makes me feel infinitely placid, infinitely calm, infinitely spacious. Something there is about the ceaseless, unperturbed ebb and flow … about the vast masses of green-blue water … that heals all my uneasy questionings and self-searchings.

Sylvia Plath, from a letter

You would rather have gone on feeling nothing, emptiness and silence; the stagnant peace of the deepest sea, which is easier than the noise and flesh of the surface.

Margaret Atwood, from Eurydice

The sea has many voices, Many Gods and many voices.

T.S. Eliot, from The Dry Salvages

Look there: how she approaches impatiently over the sea. Do you not feel the thirst and the hot breath of her love? She would suck at the sea and drink its depth into her heights; and the sea’s desire rises toward her with a thousand breasts. It wants to be kissed and sucked by the thirst of the sun; it wants to become air and height and a footpath of light, and itself light.

Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The sea is working, working in my silence.

Pablo Neruda, from Nothing More

She knows what she wants: she wants to remain standing still in the sea. And so she remains. The woman neither receives nor transmits. She does not need to communicate. She knows that she is gleaming from the water, the salt and the sun. In some obscure way her dripping hair is like that of a shipwrecked person.

Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship, or the Book of Delights

I wish you a kinder sea.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter

@edderkopper