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  To a Wreath of Snow Perfume Oil

  O transient voyager of heaven!

  O silent sign of winter skies!

  What adverse wind thy sail has driven

  To dungeons where a prisoner lies?

   

  Methinks the hands that shut the sun

  So sternly from this mourning brow

  Might still their rebel task have done

  And checked a thing so frail as thou

   

  They would have done it had they known

  The talisman that dwelt in thee,

  For all the suns that ever shone

  Have never been so kind to me!

   

  For many a week, and many a day

  My heart was weighed with sinking gloom

  When morning rose in mourning grey

  And faintly lit my prison room

   

  But angel like, when I awoke,

  Thy silvery form so soft and fair

  Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke

  Of cloudy skies and mountains bare

   

  The dearest to a mountaineer

  Who, all life long has loved the snow

  That crowned her native summits drear,

  Better, than greenest plains below –

   

  And voiceless, soulless messenger

  Thy presence waked a thrilling tone

  That comforts me while thou art here

  And will sustain when thou art gone

  – Emily Brontë

  Morning rising in mourning grey: tobacco flower, white oud, lavender bud, and ambergris accord.

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  Man With a Haunted House for a Head Perfume Oil

  Peering out through the sagging shutters, he waited for guests to arrive.

  
  Creaking oak floorboards coated in dust. A trembling sandalwood spiderweb writhes with long-buried memories.

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  Don’t Play Fetch with a Teenage Werewolf Perfume Oil

  An object landed at his feet with a thump. It was not the one he had thrown.

   

  Honey biscuits, warm auburn fur, and a squished chocolate nougat bar.

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  Halfway to Halloween Perfume Oil

  These, she knew, were inappropriate thoughts to have in the springtime.

  
  Sweet fig and golden almond with buttery amber and a flutter of autumn leaves.

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