Fairy to Pinocchio: Death? The door of the room flew open and in came four Rabbits as black as ink, carrying a small black coffin on their shoulders. painting by Karl Krogstad by Wonderlane on Flickr.
Fairy to Pinocchio: Death? The door of the room flew open and in came four Rabbits as black as ink, carrying a small black coffin on their shoulders. painting by Karl Krogstad by Wonderlane on Flickr.
hermeticlibrary:

MythologiesMythologies by William Butler Yeats, the 1969 softcover edition from Collier Books, is part of the…View Post

hermeticlibrary:

Mythologies

Mythologies by William Butler Yeats, the 1969 softcover edition from Collier Books, is part of the…

View Post

hatefulbunnies:

William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

hatefulbunnies:

William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

(via hermeticlibrary)

And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;

"Spiritism, whether of folk-lore or of the séance room, the visions of Swedenborg, and the speculation of the Platonists and Japanese plays, will have it that we may see at certain roads and in certain houses old murders acted over again, and in certain fields dead huntsmen riding with horse and hound, or ancient armies fighting above bones or ashes. We carry to Anima Mundi our memory, and that memory is for a time our external world; and all passionate moments recur again and again, for passion desires its own recurrence more than any event, and whatever there is of corresponding complacency or remorse is our beginning of judgment; nor do we remember only the events of life, for thoughts bred of longing and of fear, all those parasitic vegetables that have slipped through our fingers, come again like a rope’s end to smite us upon the face; and as Cornelius Agrippa writes: ‘We may dream ourselves to be consumed in flame and persecuted by daemons,’ and certain spirits have complained that they would be hard put to it to arouse those who died, believing they could not awake till a trumpet shrilled. A ghost in a Japanese play is set afire by a fantastic scruple, and though a Buddhist priest explains that the fire would go out of itself if the ghost but ceased to believe in it, it cannot cease to believe. Cornelius Agrippa called such dreaming souls hobgoblins, and when Hamlet refused the bare bodkin because of what dreams may come, it was from no mere literary fancy. The soul can indeed, it appears, change these objects built about us by the memory, as it may change its shape; but the greater the change, the greater the effort and the sooner the return to the habitual images. Doubtless in either case the effort is often beyond its power. Years ago I was present when a woman consulted Madame Blavatsky for a friend who saw her newly-dead husband nightly as a decaying corpse and smelt the odour of the grave. When he was dying, said Madame Blavatsky, he thought the grave the end, and now that he is dead cannot throw off that imagination. A Brahmin once told an actress friend of mine that he disliked acting, because if a man died playing Hamlet, he would be Hamlet in eternity. Yet after a time the soul partly frees itself and becomes ‘the shape changer’ of the legends, and can cast, like the mediaeval magician, what illusions it would. There is an Irish countryman in one of Lady Gregory’s books who had eaten with a stranger on the road, and some while later vomited, to discover he had but eaten chopped up grass. One thinks, too, of the spirits that show themselves in the images of wild creatures.”

(Source: gutenberg.org)

intheheatherbright:

The Courtship of Ferb. Published by David Nutt, (eldest son of Alfred Nutt) at The Sign of the Phoenix, London 1902.

intheheatherbright:

The Courtship of Ferb. Published by David Nutt, (eldest son of Alfred Nutt) at The Sign of the Phoenix, London 1902.

feeding the ghost of William Butler Yeats.