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Porcelain artdoll, a specter, a white ghost that's been haunting my desk. Like always, I've been working on this doll for awhile. There are so many steps needed to create a doll like this and then when it's finally finished there is always more to do. Washing her hair and dress, taking photos, editing photos and preparing to share the doll online, washing the doll again and trying to find words to present alongside the doll.

Sometimes, okay a lot of the time, I have a difficult time coming up with anything to say. So today I'm going to share a poem that I think suits this doll.

LENORE —

AH, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! — a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be sung! —
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young —
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read? — the requiem how be sung
By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride —
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes —
The life still there, upon her hair — the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! to friends from fiends the indignant ghost is riven —
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven —
From grief and moan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven: —
Let no bell toll, then, lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth;
And I! — to-night my heart is light! — no dirge will I upraise
But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days."

—Edgar Allan Poe, 1849

This playscale porcelain artdoll, the ghost, is made up of 19 pieces of porcelain and assembled with springs. Her dress is silk and cotton with a few beads and is carefully distressed. Her hair is suri alpaca.