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Birds and poetry (6 Viewers)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
dolphinbride
Bean Éanlaithe na Coillte
Andrew, "Song of Secret Love" is so very beautiful. Tender is a perfect word to describe his poetry!
Steve, you truly cannot think Clare's words sad and undignified?!?
Really, Chauncy Hare? A name like that brings to mind a pathetic, bankrupt, aristocrat, straight out of Jane Austen or Edith Wharton.
Steve, you truly cannot think Clare's words sad and undignified?!?
Really, Chauncy Hare? A name like that brings to mind a pathetic, bankrupt, aristocrat, straight out of Jane Austen or Edith Wharton.
Nerine
Well-known member
What wonderful Clare contributions!
Kristina and Andrew, two superb love songs, and Steve, thank you for the autobiographical writings by Clare, all beautiful yet so sad.
Andrew, in answer to your question #2178 - I believe sweeing means to sway or swing. One can picture a heron (hernshaw) swaying (sweeing) in the air! That piece of writing submitted by Steve is so vivid. I can just picture Clare:
“ I often pulld my hat over my eyes to watch the rising of the lark or to see the hawk hang in the summer sky and the kite take its circles round the wood”
Clare often avoided correct spelling, grammar and punctuation. He used the local dialect which I think somehow adds to the splendour of his poems.
Andrew, the other question you asked #2171 - I don’t know the actual date. He wrote so many poems about Mary Joyce and I believe many were written after she was dead. When he “escaped” from the first asylum (Epping Forest) in 1841 and walked home (he was going to Mary whom he thought was his wife,) he was only to be told Mary Joyce was dead. This he refused to believe. It’s likely he wrote this “Song” either while he spent the next few months with his wife, Patti and their children, or maybe later in the Northampton General Lunatic asylum where he spent the rest of his life for 23 years. Terrible! Sorry I can’t help more.
I'll try and make this one my last sad poem. It was written towards the end of Clare's life.
I look on the past and I dread the tomorrow
My life grows a burthen I wish to lay down
Times meet one wi’ naught but new tidings of sorrow
And cares tan the bloom of my summer-leaf brown
If life owns a joy it ne’er fell to my portion
If pleasure’s a substance the shadow was mine
A skiff on the waves of a wild-tossing ocean
Where no rocks befriend me such life to resign.
Spring’s done wi’ me and my summer is waning
Time’s out of call wi’ my best younger days
Hope’s only props of support now remaining
Is autumn attired in her morning-array
Autumn haste on and some winter encroaching
As on my bare head the leaves part from the tree
I’ll feel consolation of slumbers approaching
When death does the same to my sorrows and me.
John Clare
Nerine
Kristina and Andrew, two superb love songs, and Steve, thank you for the autobiographical writings by Clare, all beautiful yet so sad.
Andrew, in answer to your question #2178 - I believe sweeing means to sway or swing. One can picture a heron (hernshaw) swaying (sweeing) in the air! That piece of writing submitted by Steve is so vivid. I can just picture Clare:
“ I often pulld my hat over my eyes to watch the rising of the lark or to see the hawk hang in the summer sky and the kite take its circles round the wood”
Clare often avoided correct spelling, grammar and punctuation. He used the local dialect which I think somehow adds to the splendour of his poems.
Andrew, the other question you asked #2171 - I don’t know the actual date. He wrote so many poems about Mary Joyce and I believe many were written after she was dead. When he “escaped” from the first asylum (Epping Forest) in 1841 and walked home (he was going to Mary whom he thought was his wife,) he was only to be told Mary Joyce was dead. This he refused to believe. It’s likely he wrote this “Song” either while he spent the next few months with his wife, Patti and their children, or maybe later in the Northampton General Lunatic asylum where he spent the rest of his life for 23 years. Terrible! Sorry I can’t help more.
I'll try and make this one my last sad poem. It was written towards the end of Clare's life.
I look on the past and I dread the tomorrow
My life grows a burthen I wish to lay down
Times meet one wi’ naught but new tidings of sorrow
And cares tan the bloom of my summer-leaf brown
If life owns a joy it ne’er fell to my portion
If pleasure’s a substance the shadow was mine
A skiff on the waves of a wild-tossing ocean
Where no rocks befriend me such life to resign.
Spring’s done wi’ me and my summer is waning
Time’s out of call wi’ my best younger days
Hope’s only props of support now remaining
Is autumn attired in her morning-array
Autumn haste on and some winter encroaching
As on my bare head the leaves part from the tree
I’ll feel consolation of slumbers approaching
When death does the same to my sorrows and me.
John Clare
Nerine
scampo
Steve Campsall
He was a 'dandified' London poet, apparently, Chauncey Hare Townsend - and not a very good one. And, you're right, I do not think Clare's words sad and undignified but his ending in Northampton asylum indeed was, poor chap. I'm not convinced that we treat people with mental illness with great understanding even in our more enlightened times but in Clare's day I guess it might have been truly awful.
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dolphinbride
Bean Éanlaithe na Coillte
Hi Steve,
I owe you an apology, I jumped to conclusions in my last post. I was offended by Mr. Townsend, you clearly appreciate Mr. Clare's poetry, as I truly appreciate all of your thoughtful contributions to this thread!
(Did I mention that I'm a redhead? I sometimes let my choleric temperment get the better of me
)Kristina
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scampo
Steve Campsall
No apologies needed, Kristina - and red is such a beautiful colour for hair!
;-)
Here are a few lines Clare wrote towards the end of his life:
...A silent man in life's affairs
A thinker from a Boy,
A Peasant in his daily cares—
The Poet in his joy.
I do like that last line!
;-)
Here are a few lines Clare wrote towards the end of his life:
...A silent man in life's affairs
A thinker from a Boy,
A Peasant in his daily cares—
The Poet in his joy.
I do like that last line!
Nerine, many thanks for your answers to my queries. As for ‘sweeing’, yes, I can see that ‘swaying’ is likely to provide the meaning. I hadn’t thought of that. But I think I prefer ‘sweeing’; it is a wonderful word, with perhaps more of a sense of propulsion than swaying!
As to the date of ‘Song’, your comments are very helpful. I hadn’t appreciated until recently just how many love poems Clare had written about Mary Joyce. It was the line ‘I can’t expect to meet thee now’ that made me wonder whether he had accepted her death or whether it was simply an acknowledgement that his incarceration would prevent their meeting. It seems probable from what you say that it was the latter, which would mean after he went into the Northampton asylum. But whenever it was penned, it is a really lovely poem.
The last poem you posted, Nerine, beginning ‘I look on the past and I dread the tomorrow’, has, to my mind, a wonderful nobility about it, as well as a superb rhythm. Does it have a title (for the index)?
Here is Clare in meditative mood. Perhaps he had the likes of Mr Chauncy Hare Townsend in mind when he wrote:
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
What is Life?
And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem -and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.
Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
John Clare
By the way, isn’t it a disgrace that there are continuing copyright disputes over Clare’s poems unpublished in his lifetime, nearly 150 years after his death?
http://www.guardian.co.uk/Archive/Article/0,4273,4042964,00.html
Andrew
As to the date of ‘Song’, your comments are very helpful. I hadn’t appreciated until recently just how many love poems Clare had written about Mary Joyce. It was the line ‘I can’t expect to meet thee now’ that made me wonder whether he had accepted her death or whether it was simply an acknowledgement that his incarceration would prevent their meeting. It seems probable from what you say that it was the latter, which would mean after he went into the Northampton asylum. But whenever it was penned, it is a really lovely poem.
The last poem you posted, Nerine, beginning ‘I look on the past and I dread the tomorrow’, has, to my mind, a wonderful nobility about it, as well as a superb rhythm. Does it have a title (for the index)?
Here is Clare in meditative mood. Perhaps he had the likes of Mr Chauncy Hare Townsend in mind when he wrote:
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
What is Life?
And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem -and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.
Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
John Clare
By the way, isn’t it a disgrace that there are continuing copyright disputes over Clare’s poems unpublished in his lifetime, nearly 150 years after his death?
http://www.guardian.co.uk/Archive/Article/0,4273,4042964,00.html
Andrew
Point taken, Steve. But it just highlights the absurdity of it all, doesn’t it?
Let’s hope we’re OK with this from 414 BC:
The Chorus of Birds (from The Birds)
Ye Children of Man! whose life is a span,
Protracted with sorrow from day to day,
Naked and featherless, feeble and querulous,
Sickly calamitous creatures of clay!
Attend to the words of the Sovereign Birds,
(Immortal, illustrious, lords of the air),
Who survey from on high, with a merciful eye,
Your struggles of misery, labor, and care.
Whence you may learn and clearly discern
Such truths as attract your inquisitive turn;
Which is busied of late with a mighty debate,
A profound speculation about the creation,
And organical life, and chaotical strife,
With various notions of heavenly motions,
And rivers and oceans, and valleys and mountains,
And sources of fountains, and meteors on high,
And stars in the sky . . . We propose by and by,
(If you'll listen and hear,) to make it all clear.
And Prodicus henceforth shall pass for a dunce,
When his doubts are explained and expounded at once.
Our antiquity proved, it remains to be shown
That Love is our author and master alone;
Like him we can ramble, and gambol and fly
O'er ocean and earth, and aloft to the sky;
And all the world over, we're friends to the lover,
And when other means fail, we are found to prevail,
When a Peacock or Pheasant is sent as a present.
All lessons of primary daily concern
You have learnt from the Birds, and continue to learn,
Your best benefactors and early instructors;
We give you the warning of seasons returning.
When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat
In the middle air, with a creaking note,
Steering away to the Libyan sands,
Then careful farmers sow their lands;
The crazy vessel is hauled ashore,
The sail, the ropes, the rudder and oar
Are all unshipped and housed in store.
The shepherd is warned, by the Kite reappearing,
To muster his flock, and be ready for shearing.
You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's behest,
In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest.
For Delphi, for Ammon, Dodona, in fine
For every oracular temple and shrine,
The Birds are a substitute equal and fair,
For on us you depend, and to us you repair
For counsel and aid when a marriage is made,
A purchase, a bargain, a venture in trade:
Unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck ye,
An ox or an ass that may happen to pass,
A voice in the street, or a slave that you meet,
A name or a word by chance overheard,
If you deem it an omen, you call it a Bird;
And if birds are your omens, it clearly will follow
That birds are a proper prophetic Apollo.
Aristophanes (translated by John Hookham Frere)
Andrew
Nerine
Well-known member
Hi Andrew, there doesn't seem to be a title so I guess it'll have to be the first line for the index:
I look on the past and I dread the tomorrow
Cheers
Nerine
Nerine
Well-known member
You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's behest,
In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest.
I can't wait!
Thank you, Andrew, for "The Chorus of Birds" from The Birds by Aristophanes. It is a pretty amazing poem. I can’t believe how old it is, almost 2,500 years, fascinating, I enjoyed reading it.
We give you the warning of seasons returning.
When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat
In the middle air, with a creaking note
Lovely.
Here are two which are much more recent:
From The Winter’s Tale
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy, over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
William Shakespeare
From Love’s Labour’s Lost
Spring
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are plowmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
William Shakespeare
Nerine
In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest.
I can't wait!
Thank you, Andrew, for "The Chorus of Birds" from The Birds by Aristophanes. It is a pretty amazing poem. I can’t believe how old it is, almost 2,500 years, fascinating, I enjoyed reading it.
We give you the warning of seasons returning.
When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat
In the middle air, with a creaking note
Lovely.
Here are two which are much more recent:
From The Winter’s Tale
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy, over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
William Shakespeare
From Love’s Labour’s Lost
Spring
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are plowmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
William Shakespeare
Nerine
scampo
Steve Campsall
How odd, Nerine, that you should quote from Shakespeare just as I had dug out this (much darker...) piece from Macbeth! Great minds, eh? (-;
from Macbeth, Act II; Sc. 5
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.
[Enter Lady Macbeth.]
William Shakespeare
I shudder at the dramatic irony contained in the three words of the final stage direction (even though it wouldn't have been Shakespeare's - he didn't use any.)
No birds in this next extract, but, well... it's one of my favourite pieces of writing of all time...
from Macbeth Act V; Sc. 5
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakepeare
from Macbeth, Act II; Sc. 5
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.
[Enter Lady Macbeth.]
William Shakespeare
I shudder at the dramatic irony contained in the three words of the final stage direction (even though it wouldn't have been Shakespeare's - he didn't use any.)
No birds in this next extract, but, well... it's one of my favourite pieces of writing of all time...
from Macbeth Act V; Sc. 5
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakepeare
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Nerine
Well-known member
Nerine, thank you for the info on the Clare poem, and for posting those two lovely poems from the Bard. This has been posted before but, for completeness, here is the companion to Spring from Love’s Labour’s Lost (it has pleasant memories of early schooldays!):
WINTER
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who! - a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who! - a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare
Steve, that is indeed a great speech from Macbeth Act V Sc 5. Funny how often one has cause to quote the last five lines, though not necessarily about life itself!
Andrew
WINTER
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who! - a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who! - a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare
Steve, that is indeed a great speech from Macbeth Act V Sc 5. Funny how often one has cause to quote the last five lines, though not necessarily about life itself!
Andrew
This lyric was written by Shelley in 1820 for Mary S’s verse-drama, Midas. The context was a music competition between Pan and Apollo judged by Tmolus, a mountain god. Shelley wrote ‘hymns’ for both contestants. (For the record, Tmolus judged Apollo the winner but Midas preferred Pan’s piping!)
[Peneus = river in Thessaly
Maenalus = mountain in Arcadia
Tempe = valley in Thessaly
Pelion = mountain in Thessaly
Sileni = woodland gods or spirits]
HYMN OF PAN
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you know, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth.
And then I changed my pipings--
Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept -- as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood--
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Andrew
[Peneus = river in Thessaly
Maenalus = mountain in Arcadia
Tempe = valley in Thessaly
Pelion = mountain in Thessaly
Sileni = woodland gods or spirits]
HYMN OF PAN
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you know, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth.
And then I changed my pipings--
Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept -- as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood--
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Andrew
scampo
Steve Campsall
There are a few lines in each play that seem to speak so eloquently about a particular aspect of life. Hamlet has, perhaps, the most, but here's a little from another play all will know. The first two lines are stunning.
Romeo and Juliet
ActII; Sc1
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
William Shakespeare
Some nice poems folks-I like the John Clare ones particularly.
In our village lives a quirky & very distinguished ecologist.He has for the last few years been studying a meter square "nature reserve" in his garden.It has featured on TV, and is well known locally.He has a fascinating Weblog in which he records the minute detail of the habitats in his square meter, and the species which he has recorded there.It is a story of life in miniature,on a scale forgotten by our modern gaze-and it is one of incredible diversity.
In a recent posting to the Blog, Patrick Roper records the escape of Rosebay Willowherb seeds.These tiny seeds can lay dormant for years, and Patrick sees them as exemplars of a poem by James Elroy Flecker-he quotes the poem's last verse in his Blog.
I was very moved by his thought-and by the poem which I thought I would share with you :-
"TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE"
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.
By James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915).
_______________________________
If anyone would like to follow the story of "The Square Meter" this is the link :-
http://squaremetre1.blogspot.com/2008_02_01_archive.html
Colin
In our village lives a quirky & very distinguished ecologist.He has for the last few years been studying a meter square "nature reserve" in his garden.It has featured on TV, and is well known locally.He has a fascinating Weblog in which he records the minute detail of the habitats in his square meter, and the species which he has recorded there.It is a story of life in miniature,on a scale forgotten by our modern gaze-and it is one of incredible diversity.
In a recent posting to the Blog, Patrick Roper records the escape of Rosebay Willowherb seeds.These tiny seeds can lay dormant for years, and Patrick sees them as exemplars of a poem by James Elroy Flecker-he quotes the poem's last verse in his Blog.
I was very moved by his thought-and by the poem which I thought I would share with you :-
"TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE"
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.
By James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915).
_______________________________
If anyone would like to follow the story of "The Square Meter" this is the link :-
http://squaremetre1.blogspot.com/2008_02_01_archive.html
Colin
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks,Tyke,interesting reading.
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