Even in November...

#ateliergartenatelier, #artemisiaGARTEN

Die letzte Strophe meines liebsten Gedichts von Robert Graves wacht über den Gemüsegarten.

All saints revile her, and all sober men
Ruled by the God Apollo’s golden mean—
In scorn of which I sailed to find her
In distant regions likeliest to hold her
Whom I desired above all things to know,
Sister of the mirage and echo.
It was a virtue not to stay
To go my headstrong and heroic way
Seeking her out at the volcano’s head
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper’s
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips
With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
Green sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
Will celebrate the Mountain Mother
And every song-bird shout awhile for her
But I am gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
I forget cruelty and past betrayal
Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
— Robert Ranke