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  Die, Sweetly Die Perfume Oil

  In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die — die, sweetly die — into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit.”

   

  And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.

  
  Inevitable surrender. Opening with a heady blend of blood orange and black cherry, the heart of this perfume pulsates with narcotic jasmine, sinuous tuberose, blood amber, vanilla silk, and deep red labdanum.
  

  Out of Stock
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  Paysage 2024 Perfume Oil

  Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,

  Coucher auprès du ciel, comme les astrologues,

  Et, voisin des clochers écouter en rêvant

  Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.

  Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,

  Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;

  Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,

  Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d’éternité.

  II est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naître

  L’étoile dans l’azur, la lampe à la fenêtre

  Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament

  Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.

  Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;

  Et quand viendra l’hiver aux neiges monotones,

  Je fermerai partout portières et volets

  Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.

  Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,

  Des jardins, des jets d’eau pleurant dans les albâtres,

  Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,

  Et tout ce que l’Idylle a de plus enfantin.

  L’Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,

  Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre;

  Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté

  D’évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,

  De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire

  De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.

  
  – – –

  More chasteness to my eclogues it would give,

  Sky-high, like old astrologers to live,

  A neighbour of the belfries: and to hear

  Their solemn hymns along the winds career.

  High in my attic, chin in hand, I’d swing

  And watch the workshops as they roar and sing,

  The city’s masts — each steeple, tower, and flue —

  And skies that bring eternity to view.

   

  Sweet, through the mist, to see illumed again

  Stars through the azure, lamps behind the pane,

  Rivers of carbon irrigate the sky,

  And the pale moon pour magic from on high.

  I’d watch three seasons passing by, and then

  When winter came with dreary snows, I’d pen

  Myself between closed shutters, bolts, and doors,

  And build my fairy palaces indoors.

   

  A dream of blue horizons I would garble

  With thoughts of fountains weeping on to marble,

  Of gardens, kisses, birds that ceaseless sing,

  And all the Idyll holds of childhood’s spring.

  The riots, brawling past my window-pane,

  From off my desk would not divert my brain.

  Because I would be plunged in pleasure still,

  Conjuring up the Springtime with my will,

  And forcing sunshine from my heart to form,

  Of burning thoughts, an atmosphere that’s warm.

  — Charles Baudelaire, translation by Roy Campbell

   

  The pale moon pouring magic: Tunisian opium and mugwort with blackened bourbon vanilla, tuberose, glittering white musk, datura accord, wild plum, and tobacco absolute.

  Out of Stock
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  Lady Amalthea Perfume Oil

  Molly Grue had taken the white girl’s head onto her lap, and was whispering over and over, “What have you done?” The girl’s face, quiet in sleep and close to smiling, was the most beautiful that Schmendrick had ever seen. It hurt him and warmed him at the same time. Molly smoothed the strange hair, and Schmendrick noticed on the forehead, above and between the closed eyes, a small, raised mark, darker than the rest of the skin. It was neither a scar nor a bruise. It looked like a flower.

  A luminous white winter musk with lilac, wisteria, white chocolate, white mint, and tuberose

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  The Rights of Women Perfume Oil

  Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!
  Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest;
  O born to rule in partial Law’s despite,
  Resume thy native empire o’er the breast!

  Go forth arrayed in panoply divine;
  That angel pureness which admits no stain;
  Go, bid proud Man his boasted rule resign,
  And kiss the golden sceptre of thy reign.

  Go, gird thyself with grace; collect thy store
  Of bright artillery glancing from afar;
  Soft melting tones thy thundering cannon’s roar,
  Blushes and fears thy magazine of war.

  Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim, –
  Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost;
  Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame,
  Shunning discussion, are revered the most.

  Try all that wit and art suggest to bend
  Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee;
  Make treacherous Man thy subject, not thy friend;
  Thou mayst command, but never canst be free.

  Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude;
  Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow:
  Be, more than princes’ gifts, thy favours sued; –
  She hazards all, who will the least allow.

  But hope not, courted idol of mankind,
  On this proud eminence secure to stay;
  Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find
  Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way.

  Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought,
  Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move,
  In Nature’s school, by her soft maxims taught,
  That separate rights are lost in mutual love.
  – Anna Lætitia Barbauld

  Too long degraded, scorned, opprest: a bold, strident red chypre with sweet wild patchouli, bourbon vanilla, Tunisian neroli, tuberose, warm red currant, strawberry, and red labdanum.

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