Robert Graves awayed, bloodlust sated
Absconded to Deia, more to his mind
Place of Satyrs, sylvan glaived maize
Silenus maven muse pilgrim.
He was a poet, a true poet
Moon-throated, thralled to a muse
From whose faultless hem
Truth hewn can be eschewed
Use not vexatious runes or puzzling riddles
Which muddle befuddling the reading mouth
With finger tracing strange words, sounding out
But inscribe upon her puddling swan flounce
Words regarding which no doubt accounts.
He was innimbled in her floodlights
Bright-eyed White Goddess, robe bedight
Tight flesh taut, taught to read men’s souls by Hera
Her era archaic would be restated, smiting patriarchs.
She takes her fill, Caesar’s render, in temper a Satyr
Many sweetsinging seneschals wield pens for her
Singing of hair sweeping, bounded by seashells
Vehicle’s spoked wheels clacking, mobile aquamanile
In guise a gilt Chimera.
Alchemisland 
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