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The Spoilsport

Topics: classic

My familiar ghost again     Comes to see what he can see,     Critic, son of Conscious Brain,     Spying on our privacy.     Slam the window, bolt the door,     Yet he'll enter in and stay;     In tomorrow's book he'll score     Indiscretions of today.     Whispered love and muttered fears,     How their echoes fly about!     None escape his watchful ears,     Every sigh might be a shout.     No kind words nor angry cries     Turn away this grim spoilsport;     No fine lady's pleading eyes,     Neither love, nor hate, nor ... port.     Critics wears no smile of fun,     Speaks no word of blame nor praise,     Counts our kisses one by one,     Notes each gesture, every phrase.     My familiar ghost again     Stands or squats where suits him best;     Critic, son of Conscious Brain,     Listens, watches, takes no rest.

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"My familiar ghost again..."

Robert von Ranke Graves's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "The Spoilsport"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...

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""Come, surly fellow, come!    A song!"          Wh..."

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