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  Hunter Moon 2019 Perfume Oil

  As the winter encroaches, the time comes to embark on the last Great Hunts of the year. The deer are fattened, the fields have been reaped, and the light of the full moon illuminates the wild creatures that have come out to glean. This scent is redolent of night skies, falling leaves, and the high-pitched tension and release associated with the Hunt. A blend of traditional lunar oils touched with dry leaves, autumn bonfires, warm mulled wine, feral, animalistic notes and the chill of approaching winter.

  The accompanying Lunacy Tee can be found here!

  Out of Stock
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  Ivy Twining Around Discarded Skull Perfume Oil

  Coenraet Roepel
  Smoldering incense, scorched brown sandalwood, drooping petals, noxious English ivy berries, and a tangle of leaves.

  Out of Stock
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  The Black Tower Perfume Oil

  Say that the men of the old black tower,
  Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
  Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
  Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
  That all are oath-bound men:
  Those banners come not in.

  There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
  But winds come up from the shore:
  They shake when the winds roar,
  Old bones upon the mountain shake.

  Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
  Or whisper that a man’s a fool
  Who, when his own right king’s forgotten,
  Cares what king sets up his rule.
  If he died long ago
  Why do you dread us so?

  There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
  But wind comes up from the shore:
  They shake when the winds roar,
  Old bones upon the mountain shake.

  The tower’s old cook that must climb and clamber
  Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
  When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
  Swears that he hears the king’s great horn.
  But he’s a lying hound:
  Stand we on guard oath-bound!

  There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
  But wind comes up from the shore:
  They shake when the winds roar,
  Old bones upon the mountain shake.

  A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.

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  Ode on Melancholy Perfume Oil

  No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
  Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
  Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
  Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
  Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
  Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
  A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
  For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
  And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

  But when the melancholy fit shall fall
  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
  That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
  Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
  Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
  Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
  And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

  She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
  And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
  Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
  Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
  Ay, in the very temple of Delight
  Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
  Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
  Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
  His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
  And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

  Beauty, joy, pleasure and delight: devastated. This is the scent of the hopelessness, torment and despair of love. Lavender and wisteria, heart-wrenching pale rose, desolate white sandalwood and thin, tear-streaked white musk.

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