Once you reach your 6th Year in Hogwarts, you start to get used to all the shit.
“You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off you. You’d be like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m alive. You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off you.”
I’m listening to Morten Harket singing “Can’t take my eyes off you”, and think this music is very adequate for Tom
“He is a combination of mercurial intellectual ability, emotional ambiguity, rakish charm, charisma and provocative wit. He has a wicked inclination to mischief, underneath which is a well of spiritual pain. Both these aspects are central to his depth as a character: his unashamed and perverse delight in creating chaos; and his capacity for raw emotional expression.” - Tom Hiddleston
To his coy Mistress - Andrew Marvell - Read by Tom Hiddleston
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Should’st rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain, I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow ;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze ;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest ;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart ;
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near ;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And you quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust :
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now, therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life :
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
