Littlestone
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Re: Anon: At the feet of rubber wheels
Aug 29, 2008, 11:41
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Word on the street is that the whole thing was inspired by the single line where juggernauts thunder by said by someone else ;-)
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gjrk
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Re: Anon: At the feet of rubber wheels
Aug 30, 2008, 00:21
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Very effective poem + picture Anon. You could almost feel the poor 'overgrown' bugger gagging on the dust.
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Littlestone
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Re: Anon: At the feet of rubber wheels
Aug 30, 2008, 09:48
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You could almost feel the poor 'overgrown' bugger gagging on the dust.
Aye, it's a sad sight; its companion stands on the other side of the lane, and there are possibly two more in the High Street that have been painted :-( I think the two Fryerning Lane stones have a preservation order on them and I hear there's a campaign to have them moved off the road and into the churchyard.
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Littlestone
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Edited Sep 15, 2010, 11:15
Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 02, 2008, 18:07
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From western lands beyond the foam,
We sought our English fathers' home
By few or known or sung.
Which 'neath the quiet English skies,
far from all busy haunts it lies
The wide chalk downs among.
Huge druid stones surround the spot,
Which else had almost been forgot
By the great world without.
The mystic ring now scarcely traced
Is by a grassy dike embraced,
Circling the whole about.
Deep hangs the thatch on cottage eaves,
And buried deep in ivy leaves
The cottage windows gleam.
There little birds fly to and fro,
And happy children come and go
With rosy cheek and rustic walk,
They curtsy for the gentle folk,
As they the strangers deem.
With pinks and stocks the beds are gay,
And box and yew their shapes display
Fantastically trimmed.
And each small garden overflows
With scent of woodbine and of rose
Above the borders trim.
The ancient little Norman church,
With quaintly medieval porch,
Stands 'neath the elm tree tall
Sunk in the graveyard plot around,
The moss-grown headstones scarce
are found
Few stoop the lettering to trace
Which time's rude hand will soon efface.
Some there may be of highborn race,
But none the names recall.
The many gabled manor house,
With winking casement sheen,
Seem in the summer light to drowse
And dream of what has been
And we may dream of earlier days,
When the old convent marked the place,
When nuns in gown and coif complete,
Paced the green paths with quiet feet,
And gather herbs and simples small
Beneath the high brick garden wall,
Finding a safe retreat.
Like some small nest securely placed,
With ferns and grass interlaced,
But open to the light,
The hamlets seem to lie at rest
Upon the common's ample breast,
Secure in loneliness of space
From aught that could the charm efface
Of innocence and old-world grace
Worn by ancestral right.
Home of sweet days and thankful nights,
Fair fall on thee the morning light,
Soft fall the evening dews.
Wild winds perchance may sweep the wold
But age, untouched by storm or cold,
In memory's sight thou standest there,
Encircled by serenest air,
In changeless summer hue.
Mary S Cope (1852-1888)
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nigelswift
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Re: Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 02, 2008, 21:11
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I think that's great. Wonder where it's about?
(Is she the Cope from Philadelphia on Google? Visiting the old house in England?)
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Littlestone
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Re: Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 02, 2008, 21:42
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nigelswift wrote: I think that's great. Wonder where it's about?
(Is she the Cope from Philadelphia on Google? Visiting the old house in England?)
Avebury. I'd kinda assumed it was one of Julian's far-flung ancestors ;-)
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Littlestone
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Edited Sep 14, 2010, 18:34
Re: Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 05, 2008, 19:53
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And the following here at http://thelmawilcox.blogspot.com/2008/09/awbury.html is absolutely fascinating :-)
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gjrk
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Re: Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 07, 2008, 02:02
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Breathcatching accompanying picture on your own Meg Poems blog also. Damn.
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Littlestone
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Edited Sep 09, 2008, 23:58
Re: Mary S Cope: From Western Lands
Sep 09, 2008, 23:32
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There's a similarity too when you compare Mary's -
The ancient little Norman church,
With quaintly medieval porch,
Stands 'neath the elm tree tall
Sunk in the graveyard plot around,
The moss-grown headstones scarce
are found
Few stoop the lettering to trace
Which time's rude hand will soon efface.
Some there may be of highborn race,
But none the names recall.
With -
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Of olive-green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.
Wordsworth
Then compare that (from Wordsworth's The Thorn) with Stukeley's, "...findings at several sites, as recorded in Stonehenge, a Temple Restor’d to the British Druids:
“About three foot below the surface, a layer of flints... about a foot thick, rested on a layer of soft mould another foot: in which was inclos’ed an urn full of bones... The bones had been burnt, and crouded all together in a little heap, not so much as a hat would contain... A child’s body (as it seems) had been burnt here, and cover’d up in that hole: but thro’ the length of time consum’d. From three foot deep, we found much wood ashes soft and black as ink..."
Ach... the circles go ever on and on...
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gjrk
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The Way Stones
Sep 17, 2008, 13:51
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I passed here often when young, tired and bored
after another long day at the strand
and never looked past the gate, or did and
saw only cattle rubbing against a post.
It would be thirty years before I knew
of the cobwebs spun in the morning dew.
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