Literature in pictures: Empyreal Dreams

Every time we read a poem or a story, our mind creates pictures. Remington Aries and Ariel Wingtips have put their images into scenes. Planned are 12 in total; 5 of them are ready and truly worth visiting. Hunters find hidden gifts.

Edward Lear: The owl and the Pussycat
The nonsence poem is about a cat and an owl who are going to be married. They get their ring from a pig, as every visitor will do.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: The Rime of the ancient mariner

This is a ballad of a sailor and a sinking ship. I never have seen such realistic waves in SL. Alone that is worth seeing.

 Edgar Allan Poe: The Raven

One of the most famous stories of E.A. Poe. Almost everywhere appears the only word the raven constamtly says: Nevermore!

Victor Hugo: Les Miserables
An early novel of social criticism, famous through countless films and the musical. Beautifully captures the scene the bleak mood. But here, unlike the novel, one can reach for the stars.

Emily Bronte: The Bluebell
The romantic and sad poem that inspired the builders to this beautiful scene. Yearning for spring came up in me. Here is the poem:

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer,

The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.

And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade;
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed.

The Bluebell cannot charm me now,
The heath has lost its bloom;
The violets in the glen below,
They yield no sweet perfume.

But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,
'Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile to-day.

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened wall
With transient brilliancy;

How do I weep, how do I pine
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine,
To mourn the fields of home! 



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