I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high -- higher than most --
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone --
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do -- and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled -- there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused -- then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
The Little Ghost, Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am also unaccountably craving experiments in lingerie. I feel like that is a terribly subversive sentence, full of all sorts of vaguely debauched sentiments, only not really. I've never been terribly interested in lingerie, especially as it applies to outerwear but all of the sudden I am all about it. Last week I found a pile of ebay auctions of 1930s underthings in peachy colors with all kinds of pretty lace and funny straps and snaps and things. I've lost the link, although I know it is here somewhere, and I suddenly want piles of delicate things to wear in sweaty summer situations.
(This, clearly, has nothing to do with anything in this post, aside from the fact that it's terribly enjoyable).