Let All The Poison That Lurks In

A Banker Warned The British Poet Robert Graves That One Could Not Grow Rich Writing Poetry. He Replied That If There Was No Money In Poetry, There Was Certainly No Poetry In Money, And So It Was All Even.

The Gift Of Independence Once Granted Cannot Be Lightly Taken Away Again.

Through The Window I Can See Rooks Above The Cherry-tree, Sparrows In The Violet Bed, Bramble-bush And Bumble-bee, And Old Red Bracken Smoulders Still Among Boulders On The Hill, Far Too Bright To Seem Quite Dead. But Old Death, Who Can't Forget, Waits His Time And Watches Yet, Waits And Watches By The Door.

Entrance And Exit Wounds Are Silvered Clean, The Track Aches Only When The Rain Reminds. The One-legged Man Forgets His Leg Of Wood, The One-armed Man His Jointed Wooden Arm. The Blinded Man Sees With His Ears And Hands As Much Or More Than Once With Both His Eyes.

Let All The Poison That Lurks In The Mud, Hatch Out.