My thoughts seem as but fleeting clouds.
Adrift amidst a summer’s sky. For though they brush far endless bounds, such depths shall never truly know, nor e’en the reason why.’
Yes, it’s poetry time, and other depths my thoughts find hard to fathom are what is it with women and shoes, and what on earth is the point of Ant and Dec.
But back to poetry. And since William Cowper of Olney is too well known for further mention, the focus falls a little further a field at Ampthill, and Horace Walpole.
The fourth Earl of Orford, he pursued an indifferent Parliamentary career and is best remembered for his ‘Letters,’ written with ‘deliberate art, wit and grace.’
At Ampthill he became greatly acquainted with Lord Ossory, to whom he suggested that a memorial should be placed on the site of the castle to commemorate Catherine of Aragon, the ‘injured Queen,’ who was accommodated there during the divorce proceedings of Henry VIII and the verse inscribed upon it is by Walpole.
He also favoured Lady Ossory with his verse, and wrote a charming epitaph when her pet bullfinch died.
However, when its replacement perished he was less poetic, writing ‘Beneath the same bush rests his brother. What serves for one will serve for t’other.’
Umm, perhaps not the best, but utterly worthy of the brilliant Walter McGonagall, reputed to have been the world’s worst poet.
And so in tribute to such a talent, perhaps some even worse verse for modern times.
‘Poems, they’re just words that rhyme. In verses without limit.
‘So go on, string a few together, bleedin’ simple, innit.’