Archive for November 2012

William Sharp: The Death-Child /The Mistletoe Bough (Tim Landry/ Anon)

November 1, 2012
SHE sits beneath the elder-tree
And sings her song so sweet,
And dreams o’er the burn that darksomely
Runs by her moonwhite feet.
Her hair is dark as starless night,        
Her flower-crowned face is pale,
But oh, her eyes are lit with light
Of dread ancestral bale.
She sings an eerie song, so wild
With immemorial dule—        
Though young and fair, Death’s mortal child
That sits by that dark pool.
And oft she cries an eldritch scream,
When red with human blood
The burn becomes a crimson stream,        
A wild, red, surging flood:
Or shrinks, when some swift tide of tears—
The weeping of the world—
Dark eddying ’neath man’s phantom-fears
Is o’er the red stream hurled.        
For hours beneath the elder-tree
She broods beside the stream;
Her dark eyes filled with mystery,
Her dark soul rapt in dream.
The lapsing flow she heedeth not        
Through deepest depths she scans:
Life is the shade that clouds her thought,
As Death ’s the eclipse of man’s.
Time seems but as a bitter thing
Remembered from of yore:        
Yet ah (she thinks) her song she ’ll sing
When Time’s long reign is o’er.
Erstwhiles she bends alow to hear
What the swift water sings,
The torrent running darkly clear        
With secrets of all things.
And then she smiles a strange sad smile
And lets her harp lie long;
The death-waves oft may rise the while,
She greets them with no song.        
Few ever cross that dreary moor,
Few see that flower-crowned head;
But whoso knows that wild song’s lure
Knoweth that he is dead.

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The Mistletoe Bough

November 1, 2012

The Mistletoe Bough (William Loudan)

November 1, 2012

The Mistletoe Bough

November 1, 2012

The Mistletoe Bough

November 1, 2012

Alfred Kubin (2nd Vs)

November 1, 2012

The Mistletoe Bough (Akhenaten Aten via deviantart)

November 1, 2012

The Mistletoe Bough, A Ghostly Story

November 1, 2012

What Really Happened, Perhaps

November 1, 2012

Nathaniel Thomas Haynes Bayly: The Mistletoe Bough ( via The Poet´s Corner)

November 1, 2012

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall.
The Baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
Keeping the Christmas holiday.

The Baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, Lord Lovell's bride.
And she, with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of that goodly company.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.



"I'm weary of dancing, now," she cried;
"Here, tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide,
And, Lovell, be sure you're the first to trace
The clue to my secret hiding place."

Away she ran, and her friends began
Each tower to search and each nook to scan.
And young Lovell cried, "Oh, where do you hide?
I'm lonesome without you, my own fair bride."
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.

They sought her that night, they sought her next day,
They sought her in vain when a week passed away.
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.

The years passed by and their brief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past.
When Lovell appeared, all the children cried,
"See the old man weeps for his fairy bride."
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.

At length, an old chest that had long laid hid
Was found in the castle; they raised the lid.
A skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair.

How sad the day when in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest,
It closed with a spring and a dreadful doom,
And the bride lay clasped in a living tomb.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
And here is the music if you would like to sing it as the Victorian ballad.