install theme


Donate towards my music playlist's hosting bill!

Photography: Tender Squirrel (Ardillita Romántica), by Mayte Moya.

Photography: Tender Squirrel (Ardillita Romántica), by Mayte Moya.

(Source: faeryhearts)

(Source: merielgif)

See, the grass is full of stars,Fallen in their brightness;Hearts they have of shining gold,Rays of shining whiteness.Buttercups have honeyed hearts,Bees they love the clover,But I love the daisies’ danceAll the meadow over.— Daisy Time, by Marjorie Pickthall.Photography: Spring Stars, by Eryn Lasgalen.

See, the grass is full of stars,
Fallen in their brightness;
Hearts they have of shining gold,
Rays of shining whiteness.

Buttercups have honeyed hearts,
Bees they love the clover,
But I love the daisies’ dance
All the meadow over.
— Daisy Time, by Marjorie Pickthall.

Photography: Spring Stars, by Eryn Lasgalen.

(Source: faeryhearts)

══════════ღೋƸ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒღೋ══════════Awww, thank you so much! ^-^

══════════ღೋƸ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒღೋ══════════

Awww, thank you so much! ^-^


(Source: faeryhearts)


The wind blows

through the doors of my heart.
It scatters my sheet music
that climbs like waves from the piano, free of the keys.
Now the notes stripped, black butterflies,
flattened against the screens.
The wind through my heart
blows all my candles out.
— The Wind Blows Through The Doors of My Heart, by Deborah Digges.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Time hates love, wants love poor,But love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.— Hour, by Carol Ann Duffy.Artwork: Saint Elizabeth of Hungary Spinning, by Marianne Stokes.

Time hates love, wants love poor,
But love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.
— Hour, by Carol Ann Duffy.

Artwork: Saint Elizabeth of Hungary Spinning, by Marianne Stokes.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Artwork: Minikin Fast Asleep, by Robin James.

Artwork: Minikin Fast Asleep, by Robin James.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Hoshi e no Tabidachi (Setting Out For A Distant Star) | Koichi Sugiyama

(Source: faeryhearts)

"Second to the right, and straight on till morning."That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head.— Peter Pan And Wendy, by J. M. Barrie.

"Second to the right, and straight on till morning."

That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head.
— Peter Pan And Wendy, by J. M. Barrie.

(Source: faeryhearts)

The heartless Giant sat at his chair and offered his smudged boots for Leo to remove. “The fact is no one can find my heart,” he declared proudly. “I’ll tell you exactly where it is and you’ll still not find it.” Leo did not look up, but continued unwinding and unwinding the bootlaces, as the Giant unleashed a torrent of directions in a single breath. “Far away, so far you could not fathom it, so high you could not climb it, is a mountain, and in the mountain is a lake and in the lake is an island and in the island is a church and in the church is a well and in the well is a duck and in the duck is an egg and in the egg… is my heart.” The Giant poked Leo with a giant finger, bowling him over and over on the flagstones. “Not so easy, little thief, eh?” he declared. “Not such a diddle and a doddle as you thought, is it? No. Your father tricked me once. I shan’t be tricked again!”That night, as the Giant slept, Leo lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling. An egg in a duck in a well in a church in an island in a lake in a mountain. Impossible! Impossible, he decided as he stole from the house and began the journey. Impossible, he decided as he passed his brothers. Impossible, he decided as he glanced at the moon and saw, silhouetted in its pale silver, his friend Greylegs the Wolf, raising his head to the wind and howling long and loud, before turning and bounding towards him. In a second, they were reunited, and Leo was explaining everything. He knew, he said, he knew where the Giant’s heart was, he knew how to get there, but the journey was hard, treacherous, impossible."Hold tight," said Greylegs, offering the Prince his back. "Hold fast." And very tight the young Prince held, and very fast, for a grey dash they went, headlong, a breathless blur of world flashing by. And they came to the mountain, clambering, scrambling. And up at last. And then the lake. Wide. Deep. "Hold tight!" the Wolf cried again. "Hold close!" And plunge, splash into the lake, heads arched up above the water, cold, soaking, chilled, choking. And out at last. On the island. In its centre loomed the church, its spire so high it threatened to tear heaven. Leo twisted the iron handles on the massive doors. The doors were locked. Nothing would budge them. Leo hammered in frustration on the thick oak panels. Above them, the bells rang for the Angelus. They looked up at the swing and toll."Look!" cried Greylegs, and squinting into the glare, Leo saw dangling, impossibly high from the bell tower, the key. Then, mingling with the cling-clang-clang-clong-clang of the bells came a new note. "Craa!" it sounded, "Craa! Craa!" and from nowhere the bird whose wing Leo had mended swooped past them in salute before swinging up to the tower with a single beat and pulling off the key from its thread. Seconds later, the doors swung open. Sure enough, in one corner, they came upon a well, and in the well swam a duck…Leo clambered up onto the lip of the well and began to scatter bread to tempt the duck towards his open hands. He coaxed the duck with each crumb, nearer and nearer, until with a sudden lunge, he had the bird firmly in his grasp. But then, just as he pulled the duck out of the water, the egg dropped from its body, back into the water, sinking into the blackness. Leo was dumbfounded. Then, miraculously, the water’s skin broke and a beautiful fish leapt, twisted, turned and plunged, then reappeared slapping the water with its tail. The salmon! Back it dived, vanished, surfaced to flip the egg high in the air. “Catch it!” howled Greylegs at Leo. And he did. He caught the Giant’s heart. Held it in his hands.— The Heartless Giant, based on the Norwegian faerytale ‘The Giant Who Had No Heart In His Body’ by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe, retold by Anthony Minghella.Artwork by AngeliaArt.

The heartless Giant sat at his chair and offered his smudged boots for Leo to remove. “The fact is no one can find my heart,” he declared proudly. “I’ll tell you exactly where it is and you’ll still not find it.” Leo did not look up, but continued unwinding and unwinding the bootlaces, as the Giant unleashed a torrent of directions in a single breath. “Far away, so far you could not fathom it, so high you could not climb it, is a mountain, and in the mountain is a lake and in the lake is an island and in the island is a church and in the church is a well and in the well is a duck and in the duck is an egg and in the egg… is my heart.” The Giant poked Leo with a giant finger, bowling him over and over on the flagstones. “Not so easy, little thief, eh?” he declared. “Not such a diddle and a doddle as you thought, is it? No. Your father tricked me once. I shan’t be tricked again!”

That night, as the Giant slept, Leo lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling. An egg in a duck in a well in a church in an island in a lake in a mountain. Impossible! Impossible, he decided as he stole from the house and began the journey. Impossible, he decided as he passed his brothers. Impossible, he decided as he glanced at the moon and saw, silhouetted in its pale silver, his friend Greylegs the Wolf, raising his head to the wind and howling long and loud, before turning and bounding towards him. In a second, they were reunited, and Leo was explaining everything. He knew, he said, he knew where the Giant’s heart was, he knew how to get there, but the journey was hard, treacherous, impossible.

"Hold tight," said Greylegs, offering the Prince his back. "Hold fast." And very tight the young Prince held, and very fast, for a grey dash they went, headlong, a breathless blur of world flashing by. And they came to the mountain, clambering, scrambling. And up at last. And then the lake. Wide. Deep. "Hold tight!" the Wolf cried again. "Hold close!" And plunge, splash into the lake, heads arched up above the water, cold, soaking, chilled, choking. And out at last. On the island. 

In its centre loomed the church, its spire so high it threatened to tear heaven. Leo twisted the iron handles on the massive doors. The doors were locked. Nothing would budge them. Leo hammered in frustration on the thick oak panels. Above them, the bells rang for the Angelus. They looked up at the swing and toll.

"Look!" cried Greylegs, and squinting into the glare, Leo saw dangling, impossibly high from the bell tower, the key. Then, mingling with the cling-clang-clang-clong-clang of the bells came a new note. "Craa!" it sounded, "Craa! Craa!" and from nowhere the bird whose wing Leo had mended swooped past them in salute before swinging up to the tower with a single beat and pulling off the key from its thread. Seconds later, the doors swung open. Sure enough, in one corner, they came upon a well, and in the well swam a duck…

Leo clambered up onto the lip of the well and began to scatter bread to tempt the duck towards his open hands. He coaxed the duck with each crumb, nearer and nearer, until with a sudden lunge, he had the bird firmly in his grasp. But then, just as he pulled the duck out of the water, the egg dropped from its body, back into the water, sinking into the blackness. Leo was dumbfounded. Then, miraculously, the water’s skin broke and a beautiful fish leapt, twisted, turned and plunged, then reappeared slapping the water with its tail. The salmon! Back it dived, vanished, surfaced to flip the egg high in the air. “Catch it!” howled Greylegs at Leo. And he did. He caught the Giant’s heart. Held it in his hands.
— The Heartless Giant, based on the Norwegian faerytale ‘The Giant Who Had No Heart In His Body’ by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe, retold by Anthony Minghella.

Artwork by AngeliaArt.

(Source: faeryhearts)

One day it happened that two men with long bows rode through her forest, hunting for deer. The unicorn followed them, moving so warily that not even the horses knew she was near. The sight of men filled her with an old, slow, strange mixture of tenderness and terror. She never let one see her if she could help it, but she liked to watch them ride by and hear them talking."I mislike the feel of this forest,” the elder of the two hunters grumbled. “Creatures that live in a unicorn’s wood learn a little magic of their own in time, mainly concerned with disappearing. We’ll find no game here.”"Unicorns are long gone," the second man said. "If, indeed, they ever were. This is a forest like any other.""Then why do the leaves never fall here, or the snow? I tell you, there is one unicorn left in the world — good luck to the lonely old thing, I say — and as long as it lives in this forest, there won’t be a hunter takes so much as a titmouse home at his saddle. Ride on, ride on, you’ll see. I know their ways, unicorns.""From books," answered the other. "Only from books and tales and songs. Not in the reign of three kings has there been even a whisper of a unicorn seen in this country or any other. You know no more about unicorns than I do, for I’ve read the same books and heard the same stories, and I’ve never seen one either."The first hunter was silent for a time, and the second whistled sourly to himself. Then the first said, “My great-grandmother saw a unicorn once. She used to tell me about it when I was little.”"Oh, indeed? And did she capture it with a golden bridle?""No. She didn’t have one. You don’t have to have a golden bridle to catch a unicorn; that part’s the faerytale. You need only to be pure of heart.""Yes, yes." The younger man chuckled. "Did she ride her unicorn, then? Bareback, under the trees, like a nymph in the early days of the world?""My great-grandmother was afraid of large animals," said the first hunter. "She didn’t ride it, but she sat very still, and the unicorn put its head in her lap and fell asleep. My great-grandmother never moved till it woke.""What did it look like? Pliny describes the unicorn as being very ferocious, similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a bear; a deep, bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length. And the Chinese —""My great-grandmother said only that the unicorn had a good smell. She never could abide the smell of any beast, even a cat or a cow, let alone a wild thing. But she loved the smell of the unicorn. She began to cry once, telling me about it. Of course, she was a very old woman then, and cried at anything that reminded her of her youth."— The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle.Artwork by Renae De Liz.

One day it happened that two men with long bows rode through her forest, hunting for deer. The unicorn followed them, moving so warily that not even the horses knew she was near. The sight of men filled her with an old, slow, strange mixture of tenderness and terror. She never let one see her if she could help it, but she liked to watch them ride by and hear them talking.

"I mislike the feel of this forest,” the elder of the two hunters grumbled. “Creatures that live in a unicorn’s wood learn a little magic of their own in time, mainly concerned with disappearing. We’ll find no game here.”

"Unicorns are long gone," the second man said. "If, indeed, they ever were. This is a forest like any other."

"Then why do the leaves never fall here, or the snow? I tell you, there is one unicorn left in the world — good luck to the lonely old thing, I say — and as long as it lives in this forest, there won’t be a hunter takes so much as a titmouse home at his saddle. Ride on, ride on, you’ll see. I know their ways, unicorns."

"From books," answered the other. "Only from books and tales and songs. Not in the reign of three kings has there been even a whisper of a unicorn seen in this country or any other. You know no more about unicorns than I do, for I’ve read the same books and heard the same stories, and I’ve never seen one either."

The first hunter was silent for a time, and the second whistled sourly to himself. Then the first said, “My great-grandmother saw a unicorn once. She used to tell me about it when I was little.”

"Oh, indeed? And did she capture it with a golden bridle?"

"No. She didn’t have one. You don’t have to have a golden bridle to catch a unicorn; that part’s the faerytale. You need only to be pure of heart."

"Yes, yes." The younger man chuckled. "Did she ride her unicorn, then? Bareback, under the trees, like a nymph in the early days of the world?"

"My great-grandmother was afraid of large animals," said the first hunter. "She didn’t ride it, but she sat very still, and the unicorn put its head in her lap and fell asleep. My great-grandmother never moved till it woke."

"What did it look like? Pliny describes the unicorn as being very ferocious, similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a bear; a deep, bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length. And the Chinese —"

"My great-grandmother said only that the unicorn had a good smell. She never could abide the smell of any beast, even a cat or a cow, let alone a wild thing. But she loved the smell of the unicorn. She began to cry once, telling me about it. Of course, she was a very old woman then, and cried at anything that reminded her of her youth."
— The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle.

Artwork by Renae De Liz.

(Source: faeryhearts)


Sing, sing, sing, you blackbirds!

Sing, you beautiful thrush!
It’s Spring, Spring, Spring; so sing, sing, sing,
From dawn till the stars say “hush!”.

See, see, see the blossom
On the Pear Tree shining white!
It will fall like snow, but the pears will grow
For people’s and birds’ delight.

Build, build, build, you chaffinch;
Build, you robin and wren,
A safe warm nest where your eggs may rest;
Then sit, sit, sit, little hen!
— The Song of The Pear Blossom Faery, by Cicely Mary Barker.

Artwork: The Pear Blossom Faery, by Cicely Mary Barker.

(Source: kyuunekoo)

fairy--world wrote: Once you get this you must post 5 facts about yourself and send this to your 10 favorite followers! :3

══════════ღೋƸ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒღೋ══════════

Aww! I’m one of your favourites? I’m honoured, thank you! ^-^

Five facts about me…

  • When I take a shower, I sometimes pretend that I am a selkie or a water nymph bathing in a waterfall.
  • My favourite food ever is Japanese sushi and sashimi.
  • One of my biggest dreams is to one day have an enormous library just like the one Beast gives Belle in Disney’s Beauty & The Beast.
  • I strongly believe in natural beauty, which means I never wear makeup.
  • I suffer from a bad case of social anxiety. Staying at home curled up with a book or my laptop is my bliss.
Back To Top