creepy pretty

Dim vales-and shadowy floods-

And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can't discover

For the tears that drip all over

Huge moons there wax and wane-

Again-again-again-

Every moment of the night-

Forever changing places-

        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.