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