Ida

The smell of old books, to cuddle down in an arm-chair with a story that will make you forget about the moment and takes you away on an unforgetable adventure, and to explore the incredible world of words is three things that makes me feel content.

My name is Ida, and I'm from Sweden. I'm studying Culture Science program with literature direction.
I'm here to read and write, so if you would like me to read something special, don't be afraid to share! And if you read any of my work I'll feel honoured, and if you vote or comment I'll be exuberant. Constrictive criticism is highly praised and appreciated, too.

And I would like to share this beautiful poem by H.P Lovecraft with you as closure. And if you have any questions, please ask. I won't bite!

***
There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.

There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.

There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;

I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes
- the garden is my heart.