Saturday, 7 January 2012

The Poetry of Margery Clute (18)

If you missed the first installment, which provided some background information regarding Margery Clute's poetry, you can read it here.


Written on A Frosty Morning

‘Tis frozen all around:
The pond is turned to glass.
    The world stands still
As if e'en Time itself
    Has ceased to pass.

Poised in a silent moment
For an Eternity –
    What cause will break
This silent spell, what dread
    Catastrophe?

I know my boots are frozen.
My nose is turning red.
    ‘Tis warm beneath
This woolen quilt. I think
    I’ll stay in bed.


Margery Clute (1824-76)




The Sky at Night

The rising sun restores the sky
To a bright, azure dome.
‘Tis time, they say, to rouse ourselves
And in the world to roam;

And yet, at night, ‘tis such a sight
When constellations glow
Like jewels upon a mighty breast
Upon the world below!

See there, the Pliads, like a lamp
That twinkles in the East
And there the Plough, poised o’er the hill –
‘Tis such a nightly feast!

O how I long to sleep all day
And wander all the night
Perhaps I should, I could – and yet
It doesn’t seem quite right.

But should such thoughts deter me?
Why do as others do?
Perhaps I should defy the world
And to myself be true.

Margery Clute (1824-76)




5 comments:

Titus said...

Good old Margery! Woollen quilt very tempting this morning, and I particularly identify with the last two stanzas of The Sky at Night.

Every so often her phrasing seems so modern that I suspect you of a meticulous hoax, but then I go and look at her picture and feel better.

The Solitary Walker said...

Forget the frozen pond and boots ... it was the bejewelled mighty breast that stirred me in today's selection.

John Hayes said...

Margery's post-modernist self-reflection never ceases to amaze me.

Gwil W said...

No central heating in them days.

Marge can stay abed or get up and get working hersel' wit' bundle of kindlin and coal scuttle.

No wonder poor lass kicked bucket at fifty summat.

The Weaver of Grass said...

I think the last verse of the first poem is very unMargeryish - she never strikes me as having any sense of humour.