The poet in his idle dreams
Flies plumed wings of wild fire
And settles in deep realities
Of myrtle perfumes and lemon-flowers.
Where the hot sun scorches
And plays delicious shadows and slats
Of light in courtyards as wonderful wine
Turns the head with fantasies
Of everlasting afternoons,
Myths and magic that are eternal,
Seas of feeling and the mind
That are as much of cosmic truth
As the blue sublime Mediterranean,-
Source and fount of endless dreams,
inﬁnite yearnings and melancholies,
Absolute ecstasies, and complete beauty;
There among olives and mountain groves.
There in the white-ﬂecked waves of mirth,
There in the grave of Roberto Graves,
ls the spirit of the Poet whether you are there or here.