by Roland Robinson
Morning so beautiful that the breathing trees
had spread their boughs against the moving sea
in adoration. And in sparkling grass
and leaves of light I woke after the rain
that comes by night drenching the earth and leaves.
And, lying there, I heard the constant surge
marbling the waters round the broken cliffs;
spreading its lawn of foam before the sands:
the timeless surge that washes round the world,
older than life and death and the giant wars.
I Made My Verses
Roland Robinson
I made my verses of places where I made my fires;
of the dark trees standing against the blue green night
with the first stars coming; of the bare plains where a bird
broke into running song, and of the wind-cold scrub
where the bent trees sing to themselves, and of the night
dark about me, the fire dying out, and the ashes left
