"If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."

-C.S. Lewis

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Sacred Heart Cemetery

I have been admiring this beautiful country cemetery since we moved into our house, and finally had the chance to walk through and photograph it.
Now that my youngest is in preschool for the first time, I am having fun with my new-found freedom (even if it is only 2 days a week). So after dropping the little ones off at school,
Mama took a field trip.

It was a beautiful, perfectly foggy morning. It made my visit to the cemetery so amazingly creepy and sent lovely shivers up my spine. With the leaves rustling and the laughter of workers from the nearby farm filtering through the trees, it truly felt eerie.
I glanced over my shoulder more than once.

This cross has been repaired more than once. The seeping glue looks just like blood oozing from the crack.

There is a corn field in the background of this photo with very thick fog rolling over it.

I love the stone fence that surrounds the cemetery, it has inspired me to build one in my garden.
So beautiful and peaceful...it was the perfect early morning visit.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

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!

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.
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