Poems by Robert Graves

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,

BOY

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

AN IDYLL

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