by Pjerrot » Fri May 28, 2010 2:20 am
"The Gipsy Camp"
The snow falls deep; the Forest lies alone:
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The Gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak, which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close, with snow like hovel warm:
There stinking mutton roasts upon the coals,
And the half-roasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare,
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away:
’Tis thus they live – a picture to the place;
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.
I first heard this sonnet on a radio literature program and thought it quite impressive. I had very briefly touched upon some of Clare's poetry but this single piece alone is worthy enough for another visit. Clare's sonnet has all the richness of a fine confectionary delight with the substance of a hearty, mid-winter meal.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,/And when the moon her pallid face discloses,/I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.