Aldworth Giant : 無料・フリー素材/写真
Aldworth Giant / Giles Watson's poetry and prose
| ライセンス | クリエイティブ・コモンズ 表示-継承 2.1 |
|---|---|
| 説明 | Sir Philip de la Beche. Imprisoned in Scarborough Castle in 1322, King Edward III pardoned him five years later. Sheriff of Berkshire & Oxfordshire 1332-3. Died 1327. Here's a little song - I'm sure poor old Sir Philip wouldn't do such a thing as this:THE MARBLE FINGERMy Laura was lostOn a warm moonlit night;Now Laura is gone,And nought make it right.They were man-size in marble;She lies cold and pale,And clenched in her handIs the proof of my tale:Amid jasmines and rosesOur little house stood,And a path to the churchPassed two fields and a wood,And oft-times we walked itWhen moths took to air,And I’d hold her white handAs the moon caught her hair.A low Norman doorwayLed into the nave;With brasses and flagstonesThe aisles were paved,And knights in white marbleLay in a pair,Recumbent on tombstones,Their hands held in prayer.And oft-times we kissedAnd long minutes would pass;The moonlight cast coloursAs it shone through the glass,And all would be silentBut for our hearts’ beat,And we’d walk arm in armBack home through the wheat.But one night my LauraLooked haggard and white;“I’ve forebodings of evil;I’ll not walk tonight.”So I strolled to the church;Took the path on my own,Yet I lived to regretThat I left her alone.Through the low Norman doorwayI went into the nave;With brasses and flagstonesThe aisles were paved,And two noble tombstonesLay by the altar.“There’s something amiss,”I felt my heart falter.Where were the knightsRecumbent and cold?Could I hear their footstepsAs they trod on the mould?I ran to the tombstonesBut bare was each one.Smooth was the marble;The knights were both gone.I ran from the church,And fear gripped my mind.I thought I heard footsteps,Tramping behind.I leapt o’er the styleAnd homeward I ran,When I met with my neighbourA kind Irish man.“Now, why all this hurry?”The Irishman said,“Calm down and speak, man,Don’t worry your head!”“The figures in marble!They’re walking abroad!”The Irishman stared,And with laughter he roared.“Yer eyes are deceiving ye,Lad, to be sure!”He took hold of my arm;Led me to the church door.We looked down the nave,And there lay each knight,Cold on his tomb,And I choked at the sight.I ran to the knights;They lay lifeless and bland.One was missing a fingerFrom his right hand,So we hurried for home,And hark what we saw there:My Laura lay deadOn the drawing-room chair.I held my dead Laura;Her hand slumped by her side,And I wept for my darling,My lover, my bride.My friend knelt beside herAnd held her limp wrist;And a white marble fingerWas clenched in her fist.My Laura was lostOn a warm moonlit night;Now Laura is gone,And nought make it right.They were man-size in marble;She lies cold and pale,And clenched in her handIs the proof of my tale.Source material: Edith Nesbit (1858-1924), ‘Man-Size in Marble’, in Rex Collings (Ed.), Classic Victorian and Edwardian Ghost Stories, Hertfordshire, 1996, pp. 185-194. |
| 撮影日 | 2008-07-22 13:13:18 |
| 撮影者 | Giles Watson's poetry and prose , Oxfordshire, England |
| タグ | |
| 撮影地 | |
| カメラ | E8700 , NIKON |
| 露出 | 0.005 sec (1/210) |
| 開放F値 | f/8.0 |