Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again.
Nantucket Island is the home of my ancestors. It is an island 30 miles off the coast of Cape Cod. A place of natural beauty and historic richness. My name is Dee ...I am 53 years old. I have two children, Nathaniel who is 30 and Sarah who is 25. A few years ago I fell in love with a man from California which is where I am now and we were married for 8 years until he passed away of lung cancer this year. I remain a Nantucketer in heart and spirit and plan to move back to New England as soon as possible. I enjoy working on this page , but, as you can see, I have had very little time to work on it these last few years, I hope I will be able to work on it some more in the near future.
I have been here before
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall - I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
Inebriate of air am I ---and debauchee of dew---reeling through endless summer days---from inns of molten blue
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE
AND WE WILL ALL THE PLEASURES PROVE,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.
Christopher Marlowe (1564-1591)
Sankaty Light......Papa Larsen
A narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym
Another "Island" link
The old mill..and other island scenes...images of home
Edouard A. Stackpole
The Edouard A. Stackpole Library and Research Center on Broad Street
is an imposing brick building which houses a complete record of the island's remarkable past. On the second floor is a collection of manuscripts, diaries, and letters; books on whaling, marine history, and exploration; ships’ logs; maps and charts; some 30,000 photographs, and more. Most of these papers were rescued and deciphered through the diligence and dedication of my grandfather, Edouard Stackpole who was also a world renowned historian and one of the world’s foremost authorities on the whaling industry of the eighteenth and nineteenth century and Nantucket Island which was at one time the whaling capital of the world.
The following editorial was written in 1968 by Edouard Stackpole.
Usually the leaden darkness of the mounting clouds give notice of the gale's approach, but there is a suddenness to the gusts which also bring the first light rain. As the wind increases, the trees, nearly bare of leaves, begin their straining, and soon the glistening limbs are twisting and bending to the onslaught of the storm.
Soon the gale takes full command. The rain now drives against the houses of the town, a deluge that sweeps clear the sidewalks and roof slopes, filling the street gutters with torrents that whirl the leaves into sodden flotsam. The sidewalks become deserted and only an occasional auto makes its way through the rain-slashed streets.
Along the waterfront the seas come rolling into the docks, and the boats within the slips begin to dance to the tune of the gale. The white-crested waves sweep up to the bulkheads, sending their spray high, as if to challenge the man-made dikes which block their way. At Steamboat Wharf two deep-sea draggers, veterans of many an ocean storm,pay tribute by bowing steadily to the flood.
With the dusk the rain beats more strongly and the wind picks up the tempo of the gale. As the light fades the lighted rooms of Island dwellings emerge in the gloom, adding a note of warmth to the deep chill of the coming night. In the sanctuary of these homes the gale is shut out, but the tearing and tugging around the corners and over the ridges, the moaning deep in the chimney flues, the fierce sweep of the rain against the shingled walls, makes us aware that the elements control that outer world.
As the long night grows it is filled with the fury of the storm. The gaunt trees tremble, their branches thrashing and tossing like tortured beings; the houses shake and quiver in the powerful grip of the elements; the rain lashes the windows like whip-ends, invading the chimneys, forcing its way into cellars. Attics betray leaks and pans are placed in many places. Slumber comes but it is uneasy as the power of the gale invades even our dreams.
November gales are manifestations of nature's raw strength. There is also recognition of man's limitations to cope with such primitive force, and the sobering reminder that winter is closer than in October's Indian summer beguiling. Nature provides the seasons to mark the never-ceasing turning of the wheel of time and November gales are rough spokes in that great invisible wheel.
He also loved to dance....
(oh yes...the lady is my Mom)