1 min read
Слушать(AI)Not Dead
Walking 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
Breaks his slow smile.
Robert Graves
Robert von Ranke Graves (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Counting The Beats
You, love, and I,(He whispers) you and I, And if no more than only you and What care you or I Counting the beats,
The Cottage
Here in turn succeed and rule Carter, smith, and village fool, Then again the place is known As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school; Now somehow it’s come to me To light the fire and hold the key, Here in Heaven to reign alone All the walls are w...
The Poet In The Nursery
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly thi...
Call It A Good Marriage
Call it a good marriage -For no one ever Her warmth, his masculinity, Their interlocking views; Except one stray