The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

  Buried beneath the glittering lake,

  Its place no longer to be found.

  Yet the lost fragments shall remain

  To fertilise some other ground.

  DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

  Frost at Midnight

  The Frost performs its secret ministry,

  Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry

  Came loud – and hark, again! loud as before.

  The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

  Have left me to that solitude, which suits

  Abstruser musings: save that at my side

  My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

  ’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs

  And vexes meditation with its strange

  And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

  This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,

  With all the numberless goings-on of life,

  Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame

  Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;

  Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

  Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.

  Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature

  Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

  Making it a companionable form,

  Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit

  By its own moods interprets, every where

  Echo or mirror seeking of itself,

  And makes a toy of Thought.

  But O! how oft,

  How oft, at school, with most believing mind,

  Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,

  To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft

  With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt

  Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,

  Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang

  From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,

  So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me

  With a wild pleasure, falling on mine car

  Most like articulate sounds of things to come!

  So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt,

  Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!

  And so I brooded all the following morn,

  Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye

  Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:

  Save if the door half opened, and I snatched

  A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,

  For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,

  Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,

  My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

  Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

  Whose gentle breathings, heard in thus deep calm,

  Fill up the interspersed vacancies

  And momentary pauses of the thought!

  My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart

  With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,

  And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,

  And in far other scenes! For I was reared

  In the great city, pent ’mid cloisters dim,

  And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.

  But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze

  By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags

  Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,

  Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores

  And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear

  The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible

  Of that eternal language, which thy God

  Utters, who from eternity doth teach

  Himself in all, and all things in himself.

  Great universal Teacher! he shall mould

  Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

  Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

  Whether the summer clothe the general earth

  With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

  Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

  Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch

  Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall

  Heard only in the trances of the blast,

  Or if the secret ministry of frost

  Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

  Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

  SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

  A Soliloquy of the full Moon, She being in a Mad Passion –

  Now as Heaven is my Lot, they’re the Pests of the Nation!

  Wherever they can come

  With clankum and blankum

  ’Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation,

  With fun, jeering

  Conjuring

  Sky-staring,

  Loungering,

  And still to the tune of Transmogrification –

  Those muttering

  Spluttering

  Ventriloquogusty

  Poets

  With no Hats

  Or Hats that are rusty.

  They’re my Torment and Curse

  And harass me worse

  And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow

  Than the Screech of the Owl

  Or the witch-wolf’s long howl,

  Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog’s inward Bow wow

  For me they all spite – an unfortunate Wight.

  And the very first moment that I came to Light

  A Rascal call’d Voss the more to his scandal,

  Turn’d me into a sickle with never a handle.

  A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came,

  The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name –

  ‘Ho! What’s in the wind?’ ’Tis the voice of a Wizzard!

  I saw him look at me most terribly blue!

  He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard,

  And soon as he’d found them made no more ado

  But chang’d me at once to a little Canoe.

  From this strange Enchantment uncharm’d by degrees

  I began to take courage & hop’d for some Ease,

  When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti

  Passed by – & intending no doubt to be witty,

  Because I’d th’ ill-fortune his taste to displease,

  He turn’d up his nose,

  And in pitiful Prose

  Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese.

  Well, a night or two past – it was wind, rain & hail –

  And I ventur’d abroad in a thick Cloak & veil –

  But the very first Evening he saw me again

  The last mentioned Ruffian popp’d out of his Den –

  I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle

  I fancy the sight of me turn’d his Brains addle –

  For what was I now?

  A complete Barley-mow

  And when I climb’d higher he made a long leg,

  And chang’d me at once to an Ostrich’s Egg –

  But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon,

  I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.

  Yet my heart is still fluttering –

  For I heard the Rogue muttering –

  He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood

  When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood

  On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud

  And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud

  And wish’d from his heart nine-pins to see

  In brightness & size just proportion’d to me.

  So I fear’d from my soul,

  That he’d make me a Bowl,

  But in spite of his spite

  This was more than his might

  And still Heaven be prais’d! in contempt of the Loon

  I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.

  SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

  Written in Winter

  The green warl’s awa, but the white ane can charm them

 
; What skait on the burn, or wi’ settin’ dogs rin:

  The hind’s dinlin’ han’s, numb’t wi’ snaw-baws, to warm them,

  He claps on his hard sides, whase doublets are thin.

  How dark the hail show’r mak’s yon vale, aince sae pleasing!

  How laigh stoops the bush that’s ower-burden’t wi’ drift!

  The icicles dreep at the half-thow’t house-easin’,

  When blunt the sun beams frae the verge o’ the lift.

  JAMES ORR

  ‘She walks in beauty, like the night’

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impaired the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

  And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!

  LORD BYRON

  ‘So, we’ll go no more a roving’

  So, we’ll go no more a roving

  So late into the night,

  Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.

  For the sword outwears its sheath,

  And the soul wears out the breast,

  And the heart must pause to breathe,

  And love itself have rest.

  Though the night was made for loving,

  And the day returns too soon,

  Yet we’ll go no more a roving

  By the light of the moon.

  LORD BYRON

  England in 1819

  An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, –

  Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

  Through public scorn, – mud from a muddy spring, –

  Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,

  But leech-like to their fainting country cling,

  Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, –

  A people starved and stabbed in the unfilled field, –

  An army, which liberticide and prey

  Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, –

  Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

  Religion Christless, Godless – a book sealed;

  A Senate, – Tune’s worst statute unrepealed, –

  Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may

  Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  Ode to the West Wind

  I

  O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

  Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

  Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

  Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

  Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,

  Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

  The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

  Each like a corpse within its grave, until

  Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

  Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill

  (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

  With living hues and odours plain and hill:

  Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

  Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

  II

  Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,

  Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,

  Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

  Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

  On the blue surface of thine airy surge.

  Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

  Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

  Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,

  The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

  Of the dying year, to which this closing night

  Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

  Vaulted with all thy congregated might

  Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

  Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh, hear!

  III

  Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

  The blue Mediterranean, where he lay

  Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

  Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,

  And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

  Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,

  All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

  So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou

  For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers

  Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

  The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear

  The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

  Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,

  And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

  IV

  If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

  If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

  A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

  The impulse of thy strength, only less free

  Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even

  I were as in my boyhood, and could be

  The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

  As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed

  Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven

  As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

  Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

  I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

  A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed

  One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

  V

  Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

  What if my leaves are falling like its own!

  The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

  Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

  Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

  My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

  Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

  Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!

  And, by the incantation of this verse,

  Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth

  Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

  Be through my lips to unawakened earth

  The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,

  If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  Pleasant Sounds

  The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under hedges. The crumping of cat-ice and snow down wood rides, narrow lanes and every street causeways. Rustling through a wood, or rather rushing while the wind halloos in the oak tops like thunder. The rustles of birds’ wings startled from their nests, or flying unseen into the bushes.

  The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as crows, puddocks, buzzards etc.

  The trample of robust wood larks on the brown leaves, and the patter of squirrels on the green moss. The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches ere they fall from ripeness. The flirt of the ground-lark’s wing from the stubbles, how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings when the dew flashes from its brown feathers.

  JOHN CLARE

  The Moors

  Far spread the moory ground, a level scene

  Bespread with rush and o
ne eternal green

  That never felt the rage of blundering plough

  Though centuries wreathed spring’s blossoms on its brow,

  Still meeting plains that stretched them far away

  In unchecked shadows of green, brown and grey.

  Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene

  Nor fence of ownership crept in between

  To hide the prospect of the following eye –

  Its only bondage was the circling sky.

  One mighty flat undwarfed by bush and tree

  Spread its faint shadow of immensity

  And lost itself, which seemed to eke its bounds,

  In the blue mist the horizon’s edge surrounds.

  Now this sweet vision of my boyish hours,

  Free as spring clouds and wild as summer flowers,

  Is faded all – a hope that blossomed free,

  And hath been once, no more shall ever be.

  Enclosure came and trampled on the grave

  Of labour’s rights and left the poor a slave,

  And memory’s pride, ere want to wealth did bow,

  Is both the shadow and the substance now.

  The sheep and cows were free to range as then

  Where change might prompt, nor felt the bonds of men:

  Cows went and came with evening, morn and night

  To the wild pasture as their common right,

  And sheep unfolded with the rising sun

  Heard the swains shout and felt their freedom won,

  Tracked the red fallow field and heath and plain,

  Then met the brook and drank and roamed again –

  The brook that dribbled on as clear as glass

  Beneath the roots they hid among the grass –