And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down-still down-and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!-O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like-almost any thing-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
It's atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
"Fairy-Land" by Edgar Allan Poe
Photos by Denise Grünstein
la, la, another Sunday reserved for another photo shoot.
School starts and I suddenly have lost my (social) life.
.sigh.