Hmm.... costume....
Oct. 30th, 2004 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve_primeSince Halloween's on a weekend, I'm actually thinking about doing a costume again. It's been years! Last three costumes:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky
She lived alone and who could know
When Lucy ceased to be
But she is her grave, and oh!
The difference to me.
We can thank my early teenage years for these feats of memorization. "Lisja Anastasja Miolach Francé" aka Trisha and I went through a sort of Victorian-Goth phase, replete with candles, long letters written with real feather quills, and crocheting our own black shawls.
Cecil Featherstone, Professor of Morbid Poetry:
So I see that the long green dress still has the rickrack and ornaments all over it, and if I maintain proper posture (ha!), the 20 lbs I gained with D. aren't an issue. Lazy or newly creative, which will it be?
The Unquiet Grave, an English folk-ballad:
The wind doth blow today, my love
And a few small drops of rain
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave he was lain.
I'll do as much for my true love
As any young maid may
I'll sit and mourn all at his grave
For twelve-month and a day
The twelve-month and a day being up
The dead began to speak
Oh who sits weeping at my grave
And will not let me sleep?
'Tis I, my love, sits at thy grave
And I will not let thee sleep
For I crave one kiss of thy clay cold lips
And that is all I seek
You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips
But my breath smells earthly strong
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips
Your time will not be long
'Tis down in yonder garden green, love
Where we used to walk
The finest flower that e'er was seen
Is withered to a stalk
The stalk is withered dry, my love
So will our hearts decay
So make yourself content, my love
'Til God calls you away.
- a dryad -- long green dress and a lichen crown, for a January 1998 costume party
- a Christmas tree -- same green dress, "trimmed," and a string of Christmas lights, for Halloween 1998; I was voted a prize at work!
- Cecil Featherstone, Professor of Morbid Poetry -- a last-minute concoction while chatting on-line with keyboard_monkey, for Halloween 1999. Cecil (British: "sessil featherstun") went around "treating" my co-workers to recitations of "The Unquiet Grave," "Written on the Eve of Execution" by a conspirator against Elizabeth I, and an elegy by Oscar Wilde about a dead French prince, or for those who just wanted a snippet, this from Wordsworth:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky
She lived alone and who could know
When Lucy ceased to be
But she is her grave, and oh!
The difference to me.
We can thank my early teenage years for these feats of memorization. "Lisja Anastasja Miolach Francé" aka Trisha and I went through a sort of Victorian-Goth phase, replete with candles, long letters written with real feather quills, and crocheting our own black shawls.
Cecil Featherstone, Professor of Morbid Poetry:
So I see that the long green dress still has the rickrack and ornaments all over it, and if I maintain proper posture (ha!), the 20 lbs I gained with D. aren't an issue. Lazy or newly creative, which will it be?
The Unquiet Grave, an English folk-ballad:
The wind doth blow today, my love
And a few small drops of rain
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave he was lain.
I'll do as much for my true love
As any young maid may
I'll sit and mourn all at his grave
For twelve-month and a day
The twelve-month and a day being up
The dead began to speak
Oh who sits weeping at my grave
And will not let me sleep?
'Tis I, my love, sits at thy grave
And I will not let thee sleep
For I crave one kiss of thy clay cold lips
And that is all I seek
You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips
But my breath smells earthly strong
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips
Your time will not be long
'Tis down in yonder garden green, love
Where we used to walk
The finest flower that e'er was seen
Is withered to a stalk
The stalk is withered dry, my love
So will our hearts decay
So make yourself content, my love
'Til God calls you away.