Lost to Night, The First Evening: Act I
The Palace Beckons to one who would dwell in Paradise
Case File Journal, Number 30230601
The calls had stopped.
I wasn’t worried, not at first. Those who mourn shall be comforted, and that’s what I do-the comforting, I mean.
And obviously, I’m aware that it has an element of theater. I’ve always supposed that grief counseling was too expensive and too boring. Really, who has time, when all we really want is to know that the Other Side is doing just fine.
There’s the unspoken bonus promise being reassured that there is an Other Side to look forward to. I offer all the benefits of therapeutic recovery and religion, all bound up in an eerie evening complete with candles, mystery, and imagination.
Who wouldn’t prefer an investigation into the unknown over journaling and trite suggestions about it all happening as part of the ineffable plan? Besides, I’m also cheaper.
Don’t worry about me, though: I’m nearly comfortable, if not doing quite well, and for reasons stated, I sleep soundly.
Most of the time.
But still, the calls had stopped.
That’s really the only explanation of how I ended up in the Old City. It’s that place that we can’t really sell to tourists, and if you live here, it’s just an embarrassing relic. It’s not dangerous blight or anything like that, it’s just deserted. For some reason or another, and those reasons seem to change with the seasons, this place seems to resist urban renewal. I think most of us have forgotten most of the how and why it’s even here. Even in museums, it’s just a footnote.
Still, the address was correct, it had been slow lately, and I wasn’t really concerned, standing outside the ornately grotesque palace the navigation had led me to.
The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene!
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, just like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, just like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty
VALENTINE
for her this rhyme is penned, Whose luminOus eyes,
brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
shall Find her own swEet name, that, nestling lies
upon the page, enwrappeD frOm every reader.
search narrowly The lines!—they hold a treasure
divine—a talisman—an amulet that must be worn at heart.
searCh well the measure— the wOrds—the syllables! do not forget
the trivialest point, or you May lose your /LabOR!
and yet therE is in this no gordian knot
which one might not undo without a sabre
A mere ball of flaming gas would have illuminated the world...the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape...