After The Play.

        Father

Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?

        John

    Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
    To a beggar I gave.

        Father

The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
    Such lies that you spin.
Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
    Say, where have you been?

        John

I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
    To the Play I went,
With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
    The best ever spent.

Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story,
    My splendid night!
It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,
    Fear with delight.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:
    He of that name,
A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,
    Two eyes like flame.

All the furies of fate circled round the man,
    Maddening his heart,
There was old murder done before play began,
    Ay, the ghost took part.

There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,
    And with rage and grief
All the players shouted in full, kingly tones,
    Grand, passing belief.

Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,
    And changing scenes:
Great sounding words were tossed about like hay
    By kings and queens.

How the plot turned about I watched in vain,
    Though for grief I cried,
As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,
    In great agony died.

Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,
    Doubting me your son,

        Father

So I shall, John

        John

, but that glory for which I burn
    Shall be soon begun.

I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,
    Keep my locks curled.
The fame of my name shall go ringing about
    Over half the world.

        Father

Horror that your Prince found, John may you find,
    Ever and again
Dying before the house in such torture of mind
    As you need not feign.

While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,
    They shall never know
The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.
    You have heard me.    Go!

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Dead Cow Farm

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Shivering Beggar

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

To E.M., A Ballad Of Nursery Rhyme.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Goliath And David

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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Towards that sad lair the pale procession come
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With dim, deep-sunken eye,
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I.

'Twas in the prime of summer time,
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There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.


II.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
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III.

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Epilogue

Perplexing case! your pardon, Friends, I pray,
My head so turns, I know not what to say;
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Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
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Nay though, 'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
From certain motives which were most absurd;
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And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
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The Noble Lady's Tale

I

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"'Since silence sets thee grieving,'
He replied,
'And I abhor deceiving
One so tried,
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"He held me, I remember,
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The Reverend Micah Sowls

The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage
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The subject's sad enough
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And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.

So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where MICAH, very red,
Is mopping of his head.

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