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Robert Graves - The Lost Love
Work rating: Low

    His eyes are quickened so with grief,
    He can watch a grass or leaf
    Every instant grow; he can
    Clearly through a flint wall see,
    Or watch the startled spirit flee
    From the throat of a dead man.
         Across two counties he can hear,
    And catch your words before you speak.
    The woodlouse or the maggot`s weak
    Clamour rings in his sad ear;
    And noise so slight it would surpass
    Credence: — drinking sound of grass,
    Worm-talk, clashing jaws of moth
    Chumbling holes in cloth:
    The groan of ants who undertake
    Gigantic loads for honour`s sake —
    Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:
    Whir of spiders when they spin,
    And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
    Of idle grubs and flies.
         This man is quickened so with grief,
    He wanders god-like or like thief
    Inside and out, below, above,
    Without relief seeking lost love.
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