Lost Love by Robert Graves — Read

His eyes are quickened so with grief, / He can watch a grass or leaf / Every instant grow; he can / Clearly through a flint wall see, / Or watch the startled spirit flee / From the throat of a dead man. / Across two counties he can hear, / And catch your words before you speak. / The woodlouse or the maggot's weak / Clamour rings in his sad ear; / And noise so slight it would surpass / Credence: -- drinking sound of grass, / Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth / Chumbling holes in cloth: / The groan of ants who undertake / Gigantic loads for honour's sake, / Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin: / Whir of spiders when they spin, / And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs / Of idle grubs and flies. / This man is quickened so with grief, / He wanders god-like or like thief / Inside and out, below, above, / Without relief seeking lost love.