Robert Graves Quotes - Page 4
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The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
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Robert Graves
- Born: July 24, 1895
- Died: December 7, 1985
- Occupation: Poet
- Cite this Page: Citation







