Of Shakespeare

A pleasant picture of an English wood. …

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

A rotted log in a cool grave bog
Where moss and grasses overgrows that is where the wild thymne blows.
Oxlip, forgetmenot and violet amid the rot beside the summer meadow grows and in the evening marshlight glows.
The dazzling scent of the woodbine that lures the tramp with elgantine that travellers rest that woodmen knows.
As scented shade besides the roads.

And all the while they conspire to lay them there in sweet attire.
And plan alone to spend the night in god's arbours of sweet delight.
And then awake alone and gone.
Brief, refreshed to wonder on.
Cold day brave amid the dawn.

The pheasant's eye that climbs the wall that jackgrowsover's yellow sprawl.
And with the daisy in the lane turns to watch the sun again.
All England's roses of the bower has each in season each it's tower and each it's scent and each its rhyme.
Between the spring and wintertime.


3 thoughts on “Of Shakespeare

  1. Especially this:"And all the while they conspire to lay them there in sweet attire.And plan alone to spend the night in god's arbours of sweet delight.And then awake alone and gone.Brief, refreshed to wonder on.Cold day brave amid the dawn."

  2. I slept in a hedge a couple of times when I was younger. Not much fun at the time I assure you. And it doesn't get any better.Frome Mis Summer Night's Dream:OBERONThat very time I saw (but thou couldst not)Flying between the cold moon and the Earth,Cupid all armed. A certain aim he tookAt a fair vestal thronèd by the west,And loosed his love shaft smartly from his bowAs it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaftQuenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,And the imperial votaress passèd on,In maiden meditation, fancy-free.Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell.It fell upon a little western flower,Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound.And maidens call it “love-in-idleness.”Fetch me that flower. The herb I showed thee once.The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laidWill make or man or woman madly doteUpon the next live creature that it sees.Fetch me this herb, and be thou here againEre the leviathan can swim a league.ROBINI’ll put a girdle round about the EarthIn forty minutes.OBERONHaving once this juice,I’ll watch Titania when she is asleepAnd drop the liquor of it in her eyes.Well, they have satellites that gird the earth in 40 minutes or so.But it is still possible to have that flower beguile you.He wrote more poetry about the forests that were England in his day. One I am trying to recall is the poem about living with a woodsman for a neighbour as freely as any man (Jack Robinson or Robin Goodfellow = NE Body (probably)) and whose only downside is the rain in winter.I can't remember where it is though. Nor a phrase to help me find it.http://nfs.sparknotes.com/msnd/page_44.htmlWe don't really know much about Britain before about those days because the only things written were holy script and they tended to get abused for one reason or another.One thing we do know is that in pre-industrial cultures any cause for the population being thinned -such as war or disease, meant that trees would grow freely.Men would forage in them and kill the animals that would otherwise eat the trees. Usually illegal in more settled times. They say Shakespeare was chased out of the Midlands under threat of arrest for rustling. Someone snitched on him stealing the King's deer.

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