This is another matchbox
which was done as part of a swap on Zuzu's forum. I havent done much crafting recently and Im a bit rusty so Im not entirely happy with it (sorry box recipient). There was no theme other than alter a match box and somehow mine started to become rather gothic/ meloncholic which was not my intention. Ive ended up just going with the melancholic theme and used John Keats poem 'Ode on Melancholy' as the basis. Ive included a wee booklet thing with the poem printed on to it, though i havent scanned it to post here.
Ode on Melancholy
No,no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Prosperpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come3 too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep,deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty---Beauty that must die ;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her Sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
No,no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Prosperpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come3 too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep,deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty---Beauty that must die ;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her Sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
The box and poem probably doesn't make much sense together as its just a bit of a collage piece really but its done and ready to be sent. Its a bit weird how things can emerge as something that you haven't planned for and even when its not what you have intended it somehow wont be what you want it to be. If you get me?????
