Explore "Return" by Robert Graves on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The seven years' curse is ended now / That drove me forth from this kind land, / From mulberry-bough and apple bough / And gummy twigs the west-wind shakes, / To drink the brine from crusted lakes / And grit my teeth on sand.
The load that from my shoulder slips / Straightway upon your own is tied, / You, too, shall scorch your finger-tips, / With scrabbling on the desert's face / Such thoughts I had for this green place, / Sent scapegoat for your pride.