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A Dream BY EDGAR ALLAN POE In visions of the dark nightI have dreamed of joy departed—But a waking dream of life and lightHath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by dayTo him whose eyes are castOn things around him with a rayTurned back upon the past? That holy dream—that holy dream,While all the world were chiding,Hath cheered me as a lovely beamA lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro’ storm and night,So trembled from afar—What could there be more purely brightIn Truth’s day-star? Source: PoetryFoundation.org

Men in Kilts: A Roadtrip with Sam and Graham is a series on the Starz channel that features actors – Sam Heughan and Graham McTavish – from the show Outlander. For those that don’t know, Outlander tells the story of two lovers, their adventures in history, and time travel. Yes, based on the Diana Gabaldon novel it involves time travel. Scotland is a major player in the novel and tv show and this road trip series is about these actors exploring Scotland and all its traditions. It came out in March, I recorded it, and am only now watching it. You can probably find it on demand or online. The scenery is absolutely beautiful. This post contains affiliate links. If you click a link and make a purchase, Poe in Wonderland will earn a small commission for the referral at no cost to you. All opinions are my own and…

The Sleeper BY EDGAR ALLAN POE At midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon.An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim,And softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where liesIrene, with her Destinies! Oh, lady bright! can it be right—This window open to the night?The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop—The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully—so fearfully—Above the closed and fringéd lid’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,That, o’er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou…

“The Night Mail” poem written by WH Auden paints a vivid picture of what it was like to transport and receive mail once upon a time. The excitement of it reaching its destination and people walking to their mailboxes or their local shops to pick up letters. The Night Mailby WH Auden This is the night mail crossing the Border,Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,The shop at the corner, the girl next door. Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time. Past cotton-grass and moorland boulderShovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passesSilent miles of wind-bent grasses. Birds turn their heads as she approaches,Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches. Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;They slumber on with paws across. In the farm she passes no one wakes,But a jug in a bedroom…

Emily Dickinson was loving, kind, and a bit of a prankster. “Will there really be a morning” is a poem she wrote on the back of a cake recipe. A cake recipe?! What if it hadn’t been found? I learned about this while looking up the poem and ran across Hidden Kitchens produced by The Kitchen Sisters. Their series featured the story of Emily and the poem on NPR’s Morning Edition which we can listen to below. BLACK CAKE: EMILY DICKINSON’S HIDDEN KITCHEN ON NPR’S MORNING EDITION Posted by The Kitchen Sisters on Dec 27, 2016 in Hidden Kitchens, Hidden World of GirlsListen to the podcast about Dickinson’s black cake recipe and her life at the below link to their podcast. http://www.kitchensisters.org/present/black-cake-emily-dickinsons-hidden-kitchen/ Will there really be a morning? by Emily Dickinson Will there really be a “Morning”?Is there such a thing as “Day”?Could I see it from the mountainsIf I were as tall as they? Has…

By Sylvia PlathOctober 4, 1958 Flintlike, her feet struck such a racket of echoes from the steely street,tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black stone-built town, that she heard the quick air ignite  its tinder and shake a firework of echoes from wall to wall of the dark, dwarfed cottages.But the echoes died at her back as the walls gave way to fields and the incessant seethe of grasses  riding in the full of the moon, manes to the wind, tireless, tied, as a moon-bound seamoves on its root. Though a mist-wraith wound up from the fissured valley and hung shoulder-high  ahead, it fattened to no family-featured ghost, nor did any word body with a namethe blank mood she walked in. Once past the dream-peopled village, her eyes entertained no dream,  and the sandman’s dust lost lustre under her footsoles. The long wind, paring her person downto a pinch of flame, blew its burdened whistle in the whorl of her ear, and, like a scooped-out…

The LakeEdgar Allan Poe – 1809-1849 In youth’s spring it was my lotTo haunt, of the wide earth a spotThe which I could not love the less,So lovely was the lonelinessOf a wild lake, with black rock bound,And the tall pines that tower’d around. But, when the night had thrown her pallUpon that spot, as upon all,And the mystic wind went byMurmuring in melody -Then – ah then I would awakeTo the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright.But a tremulous delight – A feeling not the jewelled mineCould teach or bribe me to define -Nor Love – although the Love were thine. Death was in that poison’d wave —And, in its gulf, a fitting graveFor him who thence could solace bringTo his lone imagining -Whose solitary soul could makeAn Eden of that dim lake. https://youtu.be/3OKdS85iPo4 You might enjoy our post Evening Star Written by Edgar Allan…

Acquainted with the Night BY ROBERT FROST I have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feetWhen far away an interrupted cryCame over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye;And further still at an unearthly height,One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. Source: PoetryFoundation.org You might also enjoy our posts Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, The Road Not Taken, Mending Wall, and Ghost House. Robert Frost in 1943. (Eric Schaal/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images)

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