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  On Houses Perfume Oil

  Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses.

       And he answered and said:

       Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

       For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

       Your house is your larger body.

       It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for a grove or hill-top?

   

       Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

       Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

       But these things are not yet to be.

       In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

   

       And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

       Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

       Have you rememberances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

       Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

       Tell me, have you these in your houses?

       Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

   

       Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

       Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

       It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

       It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

       Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

   

       But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

       Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

       It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

       You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

       You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

       And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

       For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

  
  Morning mist and the songs and the silences of night: a soft, hazy nocturne of moonflower, dew-touched lavender buds, rose hips, and night-blooming jasmine.
  

  The sales from April’s scents from the Prophet series benefits Lutheran Settlement House, who provides food access, homelessness services, domestic violence services, senior care, and educational resources to Philadelphia’s communities.

   

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  Rose Red 2024 Perfume Oil

  The perfected winter rose, dew covered and freshly cut.

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  La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente Perfume Oil

  My limbs are wasted with a flame,
  My feet are sore with traveling,
  For, calling on my Lady’s name,
  My lips have now forgot to sing.

  O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
  Strain for my Love thy melody,
  O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,
  My gentle Lady passeth by.

  She is too fair for any man
  To see or hold his heart’s delight,
  Fairer than Queen or courtesan
  Or moonlit water in the night.

  Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
  (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
  Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
  Of autumn corn are not more fair.

  Her little lips, more made to kiss
  Than to cry bitterly for pain,
  Are tremulous as brook-water is,
  Or roses after evening rain.

  Her neck is like white melilote
  Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
  The throbbing of the linnet’s throat
  Is not so sweet to look upon.

  As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
  White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
  Her cheeks are as the fading stain
  Where the peach reddens to the south.

  O twining hands! O delicate
  White body made for love and pain!
  O House of love! O desolate
  Pale flower beaten by the rain!

  Soft, lush myrtle and dry, sweet melilot with wild rose, pomegranate juice and peach blossom against a background of deep aquatic notes and a twirl of melancholy autumn breezes.

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  Rakshasa Perfume Oil

  This haunting, exotic scent is named in honor of the shapeshifting demons from Hindu mythology. Sandalwood with rose and patchouli.

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