Poesía

Deya

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.