It is a pleasant place to lie, amidst a copse of Olive trees. The tears of muses, never dried, have effaced the writing from your stone. These hills about once knew your step, your strong and confident poet’s stride. Robert, the Royal Fusilier, Once thought dead, but you’d survived.
Your home is a museum now, Your Black Cordoban hangs on the wall. I step into the little den where you finally said farewell to all. Looking out your window I Espy a naked maiden flee. Skin starkly white with Golden hair- The White goddess? Could it be? At any rate, a comely lass, Beauty to whet a poet’s pen I’ve heard you were inspired thus by lovely muses, now and then.
Your domestic arrangements Were quite strange; celibate infidelity. I’ll admit that’s one I haven’t tried. Nor would I like to, honestly. But your genius can’t be ignored. by honest literary men. I’ve spend hours in Ancient Rome transported by your fertile pen.
Farewell Robert, Beryl too You knew he’d be yours at the end. Muses fuel a poet’s pen But cannot love as wives may do.