Master of Macabre...

Spirits of the Dead

by Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone

’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness—for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again

In death around thee—and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—

And the stars shall look not down

From their high thrones in the heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given—

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,

Now are visions ne’er to vanish;

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more—like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze—the breath of God—is still—

And the mist upon the hill,

Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token—

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries!
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In remembrance of my favorite American poetic genius. On October 7, 1849, Edgar Allen Poe passed away in what was his biggest mystery of all.

May his tormented soul rest in peace.

Exploration

There is nothing comparable to being in the woods on a beautiful spring day in Michigan. I cannot even begin to describe the strength and energy I absorb while being surrounded by our Great Mother.

It is my sanity.

Nature

O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only - be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn.

Henry David Thoreau


I am lucky enough to be surrounded by woods like these in my beautiful state. I took this photos just the other day while out with my little ones exploring. Please feel free to click on the photo to see all the amazing details up close. We need to take care of this great planet of ours, I fear areas like this may not be around for our grandchildren.

The Hunt

The noble stag was pausing now

Upon the mountain's southern brow,

Where broad extended, far beneath,

The varied realms of fair Menteith,

With anxious eye he wandered o'er,

Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,

And pondered refuge from his toil,

By far Lochard and Aberfoyle,

But nearer was the copsewood grey,

That waved and wept on Loch Achray,

And mingled with the pine-trees blue,

On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.

Fresh vigor with the hope returned,

With flying foot the heath he spurned,

Held westward with unwearied race,

And left behind the panting chase.

~The Hunt; an excerpt from the Lady of the Lake

~Sir Walter Scott

~artwork: The Monarch of the Glen

~Edwin Henry Landseer