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Quote by Mahdi Mansour

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Mahdi Mansour

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“When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady's knotted hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. ("The Basilisk")”

FallFantasyTreeAutumnWitchTreesDark FantasyRowanBalladFirSycamore Beech
Book:Terror by Gaslight: More Victorian Tales of Terror
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“Night after night on starry wings Night lovers soared so high Miles apart, across the oceans Their love forgot to sigh In heavenly flight’s timelessness That highest height treasured Into the deepest of all blues Their depth of love measured. From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers”

LovePoetryNightLove QuotesLoversPoemHighestBlueDistanceWingsDepthMilesPoetry QuotesHeightPoemsTimelessSighTimelessnessTreasuredVersePoetry QuoteBluesApartBalladAcrossStarryLongdistance
Book:To Evince the Blue
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“Why does your sword so drip with blood, Edward, Edward? Why does your sword so drip with blood? And why so sad are ye, O?' 'O, I have killed my hawk so good, Mother, mother: O I have killed my hawk so good: And I had no more but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blood was never so red, Edward, Edward: Your hawk’s blood was never so red, My dear son I tell thee, O.' 'O, I have killed my red-roan steed, Mother, mother: O, I have killed my red-roan steed, That once was so fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was old, and we have got more, Edward, Edward: Your steed was old, and we have got more, Some other evil ye fear, O.' 'O, I have killed my father dear, Mother, mother: O, I have killed my father dear, Alas! and woe is me, O!' 'And what penance will ye suffer for that, Edward, Edward? And what penance will ye suffer for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mother, mother: I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, And I’ll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do with your towers and your halls, Edward, Edward? And what will ye do with your towers and your halls, That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I’ll let them stand till they down fall, Mother, mother: I’ll let them stand till they down fall, For here never more may I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your children and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your children and your wife When ye go over the sea, O?' 'The world is large, let them beg through life, Mother, mother: The world is large, let them beg throw life, For them never more will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your own mother dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your own mother dear? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'The curse of hell from me shall you bear for me, Mother, mother: The curse of hell from me shall you bear for me, Such counsels you gave to me, O.”

DeathMurderBallad
Author:Anonymous
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“This is my gift to you and your reward, Tom Mulligan, maker of ballads and journeyman worker in fine tales. 'Tis more than your wish was. Nayther you nor anyone who sits at your table, through all your life, will ever want a bite to ate or a sup to dhrink, nor yet a silver shilling to cheer him on his way. Good luck to all here and goodbye!" Even as they looked at the King he was gone, vanished like a light that's blown out-and they never saw him more. But the news spread. Musicianers, poets, and story-tellers, and jayniouses flocked to the ballad maker's cabin from all over Ireland. Any fine day in the year one might see them gather in dozen knots before his door and into as many little crowds about the stable. In each crowd, from morning till night, there was a chune being played, a ballad sung, or a story being tould. Always one could find there blacksmiths, schoolmasters, and tinkers, and all trades, but the greater number be far, av coorse, were beggarmen. Nor is that same to be wondhered at, bekase every jaynious, if he had his own way and could folly his own heart's desire'd start to-morrow at daybreak with the beggarman's staff and bag. But wherever they came from, and whatever their station, Tom Mulligan stumped on his wooden leg from crowd to crowd, the jovial, happy master of them all.”

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Book:Darby O'Gill and the Good People
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