written by Robert GravesWalking through trees to cool my heat and pain,
I know that David?s with me here again.
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.
Caressingly I stroke
Rough bark of the friendly oak.
A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.
Turf burns with pleasant smoke;
I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.
Over the whole wood in a little while
Breaks his slow smile.
Robert Graves
written by Robert Graves, published on Sun 11.23.2008 at 16:49
Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
Counting no sheep and careless of chimes
Welcoming the dawn confabulation
written by Robert Graves, published on Mon 11.10.2008 at 03:28
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,
written by Robert Graves, published on Mon 10.06.2008 at 03:22
(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916)
Yet once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from the brook:
written by Robert Graves, published on Sat 08.30.2008 at 07:09
The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all?s poetry with him.
written by Robert Graves, published on Sat 06.14.2008 at 00:51
Call it a good marriage -
For no one ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
written by Robert Graves, published on Tue 03.11.2008 at 03:59
Feet and faces tingle
In that frore land:
Legs wobble and go wingle,
You scarce can stand.
The skies are jewelled all around,
