CCXLVIII. Un’urna più bella.

14 Apr

CCXLVIII.

DIED OF WOUNDS.
 
And so they marked me dead, the day
That I turned twenty-one?
They counted me as dead, did they,
The day my childhood slipped away
And manhood was begun?
Oh, that was fit and that was right!
Now, Daddy Time, with all your spite,
Buffet me how you can,
You’ll never make a man of me
For I lie dead in Picardy,
Rather than grow a man.
Oh that was the right day to die
The twenty-fourth day of July!
God smiled
Beguiled
By a wish so wild,
And let me always stay a child.
 
Robert Graves, The Complete Poems,
Penguin Classics, Londra 20031, p. 809.

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