"Men say, that in this midnight hour,The disembodied have power,To wander as it liketh them. By wizard oak and fairy stream,Thru still and solemn spaces.And by old walls and tombs, to dream. With pale, cold, mournful faces."
-William Motherwell ("Midnight and Moonshine")
THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) (excerpts)
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, the moon was a ghostly galloon tossed over the purple moor and the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.....
And the highwayman came riding came riding, up to the old inn-door.
A French-cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin. His boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle. His rapier hilt a twinkle, under a jewelled sky.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there, but the landlord's black eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"Look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
She loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over. Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They bound his daughter, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every wind. And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her! “Now, keep good watch!”
She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight, and warned him—with her death.
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Photographs 2017 Excerpts from "1000 Beautiful Things 1948"
Byrdy...14 weeks. Watches.
Byrdy and best friend, Poe....
Cordelia
Couldn't resist. Smokey about ten days ago.....
