Poems by Robert Graves

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I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,
“Gabble-gabble,… brethren,… gabble-gabble!”
Through long nursery nights he stood
To you who’d read my songs of War
When a dream is born in you
This valley wood is pledged
“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,
The child alone a poet is:
Call it a good marriage -
Father is quite the greatest poet
Cherries of the night are riper
Back from the line one night in June,
You, love, and I,
An ancient saga tells us how
The difference between you and her
Double red daisies, they’re my flowers,
Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
August 6, 1916.—Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.)
Here down this very way,
Feet and faces tingle
I now delight
(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916)
I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you
Look at my knees,
Children born of fairy stock
He is quick, thinking in clear images;
Christ of His gentleness
What could be dafter
A purple whale
I never dreamed we’d meet that day
She, then, like snow in a dark night,
His eyes are quickened so with grief,
To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone;
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
With a fork drive Nature out,
In my childhood rumors ran
Old Mr. Philosopher
Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain,
Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
Those who dare give nothing
She tells her love while half asleep,
When outside the icy rain
“What do you think
Love is universal migraine,
Down in the mud I lay,
Louder than gulls the little children scream
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,
Here in turn succeed and rule
The cruel Moon hangs out of reach
She let her golden ball fall down the well
Why do you break upon this old, cool peace,
The bugler sent a call of high romance—
For me, the naked and the nude
You young friskies who today
Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
NEAR Clapham village, where fields began,
Desire, first, by a natural miracle
My familiar ghost again
Lovers in the act despense
(from the Welsh)
A simple nosegay! Was that much to ask?
The great sun sinks behind the town
There is one story and one story only
It doesn’t matter what’s the cause,
(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: “I am just finishing my ‘Faun’s Holiday.’ I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.”)
And have we done with War at last?
Children, if you dare to think
'But that was nothing to what things came out
When I’m killed, don’t think of me
Strawberries that in gardens grow