La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente
My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with traveling,
For, calling on my Lady’s name,
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart’s delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moonlit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet’s throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
Soft, lush myrtle and dry, sweet melilot with wild rose, pomegranate juice and peach blossom against a background of deep aquatic notes and a twirl of melancholy autumn breezes.
In the Imp: Honey drenched fruits and florals. I always associate clovers with honey.
On Me: Breathe deep as the last hint of Summer fades into Autumn; green, sweet, and heady with harvested fruits.
On My Son: Breezes from our back yard back home, and that funny little fruit Mom always buys that says Autumn is coming.
The Lampades are the darkly beautiful nymphs of the underworld, also called the Lethe Nymphae Avernales. They are the daughters of the Gods that govern the many rivers of Hades. The Lampades are Hecate’s torch-bearers and accompany the Goddess on her hunts, quests and revels. Their scent is the crisp, inviting bittersweet tang of cranberry with smoky dark lilies, heady, sensual musk, a tingle of ginger and a brush of Mediterranean spices.
In the Imp: Mulled Cranberries.
On Me: This plus a bit of Musk.
On My Son: Cranberry relish. Not sure if I like smelling like this…oh it’s changing…nope, still too much relish.
“Most of the Gaelic poets, down to quite recent times, have had a Leanhaun Shee, for she gives inspiration to her slaves and is indeed the Gaelic muse — this malignant fairy. Her lovers, the Gaelic poets, died young. She grew restless and carried them away to other worlds, for death does not destroy her power.” – W.B. Yeats
The name translates to “fairy, love of my soul”. A vampiric spirit and a dark muse, the love of the Leanan Sidhe is both a gift and a curse. These eerily beautiful Irish spirits drain the sanity and lifeforce of the men they inspire to artistic greatness. Her kiss infuses a man with depth of vision and feeling, otherworldly passion, and a sudden and ineffable understanding of the unending sadness that plagues mankind. Her perfume is a crush of Irish herbs and flowers, Gaelic mists, and nighttime dew.
In the Imp: Green and fresh, almost aquatic, very ethereal.
On Me: I think the reason why I like The Host of the Air(Bards of Ireland) is it reminded me of this, but with more grandeur. This is a simpler version. It’s a breath of fresh air.
On My Son: It’s very Spring/Summer. Clean. Mom said it right. Breath of fresh air.
Lightning slashing the midnight skies over the endless reaches of the ocean. The electric tang of ozone, marine notes, and a drop of sharp rain.
In the Imp: Here comes the storm.
On Me: If you want a perfect scent of lightning crackling in the air, look no further. I wished I could have given my brother a bottle of this. He’d have smelled like a grown-up thunderstorm.
On My Son: Is it going to rain?
Me: No, you smell like rain.
My Son: Neat.
**Indulgent scents were acquired from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends. Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**