Wilfred
(i)
He glowed with beauty like a tree
That reaches up towards the sky.
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(ii)
I dozed: my soul did drift away,
Fearless, to a sleepy land,
Where Wilfred stood upon a cloud,
A golden harp held in his hand.
Motionless he stood and yet
The sweetest music seemed to flow
Down from his aethereal height
To waft around my ears below.
I woke to bitter memory:
Alas! Poor Wilfred is no more!
At one now with the rocks and stones,
Cold, beneath the chapel floor!
Margery Clute (1824-76)
Winter Sketch
When icicles hang
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8 comments:
I'll bet old Wilfred was proud of that manly trunk!
As for glowing "with beauty like a worm", I must try that line next time I'm trying to impress someone special...
Oh, Dominic, I mean Margaret, that first one was so brilliant, I'm almost wetting myself with laughter, I mean poignant tears. This poem gives the lie to the accepted view of Victorian sexual repression. Clute seems quite candid here - within the usual cultural taboos of nomenclature.
Bravo The Skivvy!
Bravo The Skivvy!
The girl certainly has a wild imagination!
Quite the eye opener, our Marge! Smashing.
Love the parody of Shakespeare, too. Go blow your nail, Margery!
GOAT: I bet. Try it, definitely. Let us know how you get on. You never know, it might uncover a mutual interest in Margery Clute! :)
SW: Marge says thank you. Indeed she does.
tony: Bravo twice indeed!
Gwil: Certainly a forward-looking one.
RF: In addition to Mr Shakes, the discerning may note allusions to both Byron and Wordsworth (among others) in her writing. Cor! Managed that without a be-verb.
The Freudian critics must have had a heyday with those two!
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