Into The Blue

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.

Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;

That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.

But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil —
Those bitter feelings rise?

O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,

Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife.

'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.

The Bluebell by Anne Bronte, read it here

The Outfit

Off the shoulder peasant blouse - Oxfam

Blue dress - Asos

The Music

Sibelius - Violin Concerto in D Minor

All photos taken by me on my little camera

The Hammock

"Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere--somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them.

Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree.

"Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked.

"I'll stay out here. Good-night."

"Shall I get you a pillow?"

"There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow.

"It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about."

"No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body.

Extract from The Awakening & Other Stories by Kate Chopin, via 1

The Outfit:

Peasant Blouse: from a charity shop

Mint Green Maxi Skirt: very old from the high street

Soft Leather Blue Ankle Tie Sandals: from a sale years ago online at Toast

White Cotton Parasol: from Ebay

 

 

The Soundtrack

John Taverner: The Protecting Veil  

 

 

Photographs taken by Mr Eve a few months ago, using my little digital camera.

 

 

I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from www.notdeadyetstyle.blogspot.co.uk, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.

 

Spring Tale: The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies O!

 

There were three gypsies a come to my door,
And downstairs ran this lady, O!
One sang high and another sang low,
And the other sang bonny, bonny, Biscay, O!

Then she pulled off her silk finished gown
And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged, rags about our door,
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was late last night, when my lord came home,
Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on every hand,
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

O saddle to me my milk-white steed,
Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

 

 

  

O he rode high and he rode low,
He rode through woods and copses too,
Until he came to an open field,
And there he espied his a-lady, O!

What makes you leave your home and land?
What makes you leave your money, O?
What makes you leave your new wedded lord?
To go with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

 

 

 

What care I for my house and my land?
What care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new wedded lord?
I'm off with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
And to-night you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

 

 

 

 

What care I for a goose-feather bed?
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gypsies, O!

 

 

 

 The Gypsy Outfit:

 

Red Off The Shoulder Dress: bought from Ebay

 

Blue Sequin Cuff: very old from the high street

 

Nude Pink Shoes: old from New Look in the sale

 

 

 

The Lady Outfit:

 

Vintage Victorian White Silk Satin With Black Velvet Stripe Skirt and Bodice: passed down from late granny Kiki and her mother, and possibly her mother before her. I can't do the bodice up, it's far too small for my bust!

 

Black Top Underneath: from a charity shop

 

Black Suede Court Shoes: old from Hobbs

 

Vintage Style Drop Earrings: from Accessorize

 

 

 

The Soundtrack

 

Traditional English Folk Song: The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies O!

 

 

 

Photographs taken by me, self portraits using the timer on my little digital camera. 

 I used the video function on my little camera for the first time, to make an out-of-focus/atmospheric clip; turns out that walking and singing and filming all at once isn't that easy....

This tale is the first in a series I'll create, of longer multi-outfit posts, with one planned to celebrate the beauty and nature of each season. The Spring tale was delayed by bad weather slowing down the growth of the bluebells, but here they are now and oh so very beautiful!

Let's savour the last days of Spring before Summer has truly arrived.

 

 

I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from www.notdeadyetstyle.blogspot.co.uk, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.

 

 

Gypsy Spring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
One day when I was
Galloping about doing good, I saw
A figure in the path; I said
Get off! (Be-
cause
I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good)
But he did not move, instead
He raised his hand as if
To land me a cuff
So I made to dodge so as to
Prevent him bringing it orf,
Un-for-tune-ately I slid
On a banana skin
Some Ass had left instead
Of putting in the bin. So
His hand caught me on the cheek
I tried
To lay his arm open from wrist to elbow
With my sharp teeth
Because I am
A cat that likes to gallop about doing good.
Would you believe it?
He wasn’t there
My teeth met nothing but air,
But a Voice said: Poor Cat,
(Meaning me) and a soft stroke
Came on me head
Since when
I have been bald.
I regard myself as
A martyr to doing good
Also I heard a swoosh
As of wings, and saw
A halo shining at the height of
Mrs Gubbins’s backyard fence,
So I thought: What’s the good
Of galloping about doing good
When angels stand in the path
And do not do as they should
Such as having an arm to be bitten off
All the same I
Intend to go on being
A cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
Now with my bald head I go,
Chopping the untidy flowers down, to
and fro,
An’ scooping up the grass to show
Underneath
The cinder path of wrath
Ha ha ha ha, ho,
Angels aren’t the only ones who do
not know
What’s what and that
Galloping about doing good
Is a full time job
That needs
An experienced eye of earthly
Sharpness, worth I dare say
(if you’ll forgive a personal note)
A good deal more
Than all that skyey stuff
Of angels that make so bold as
To pity a cat like me that
Gallops about doing good.

 

 

The Galloping Cat by Stevie Smith, via 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The Outfit:

 

Vintage 1970s Sweetheart Neckline Green Dress: from Ebay

 

Pink Shawl: a gift from a friend

 

Vintage Bracelets: passed down from granny Penny

 

Purple Embroidered Pumps: a gift from Barcelona from darling Mr Eve

 

Hoop Vintage Style Earrings: Accessorize

 

 

The Cat:

 

our girl Nico

 

The Soundtrack

 

Django Reinhardt: Anthology

 

 

Photographs taken by me, self portraits using the timer on my little digital camera.

 

I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from www.notdeadyetstyle.blogspot.co.uk, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.

 

The Path Home

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They say it is waiting for more, the snow

Shrunk up to the shadow-line of walls

In an arctic smouldering, an unclean salt,

And will not go until the frost returns

Sharpening the stars, and the fresh snow falls

Piling its drifts in scallops, furls. I say

Snow has left its own white geometry

To measure out for the eye the way

The land may lie where a too cursory reading

Discovers only dip and incline leading

To incline, dip, and misses the fortuitous

Full variety a hillside spreads for us:

It is written here in sign and exclamation,

Touched-in contour and chalk-followed fold,

Lines and circles finding their completion

In figures less certain, figures that yet take hold

On features that would stay hidden but for them:

Walking, we waken these at every turn,

Waken ourselves, so that our walking seems

To rouse some massive sleeper out of winter dreams

Whose stretching startles the whole land into life,

As if it were us the cold, keen signs were seeking

To pleasure and remeasure, repossess

With a sense in the gathered coldness of heat and height.

Well, if it's for more the snow is waiting

To claim back into disguisal overnight,

As though it were promising a protection

From all it has transfigured, scored and bared,

Now we shall know the force of what resurrection

Outwaits the simplification of the snow.

 

 

Snow Signs by Charles Tomlinson, via 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Outfit:

 

 

Faux Sheepskin coat: very old, from Morgan de Toi

 

 

Silver velvet dress, seen as a skirt: bought from Monsoon when I was about 16

 

 

Black faux fur cardigan coat: very old from the high street

 

 

Faux wolf fur shawl: from an ex boyfriend

 

 

Red faux leather gloves: a gift from a friend

 

 

Wellies underneath: Hunter, via ebay

 

The Soundtrack

Nick Cave: Your Funeral My Trial 

All photographs taken by me, self portraits using the self timer on my cheap digital camera.

Unfortunately I've been unwell this last week, so I'm very behind on reading all your latest posts. I promise to drop by again very soon!

I'm delighted to be a part of Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from www.notdeadyetstyle.blogspot.co.uk, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.