Brittle Bones.

Though I am an old man
    With my bones very brittle,
Though I am a poor old man
    Worth very little,
Yet I suck at my long pipe
    At peace in the sun,
I do not fret nor much regret
    That my work is done.

If I were a young man
    With my bones full of marrow,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
    Straight as an arrow,
And if I had the same years
    To live once again,
I would not change their simple range
    Of laughter and pain.

If I were a young man
    And young was my Lily,
A smart girl, a bold young man,
    Both of us silly.
And though from time before I knew
    She'd stab me with pain,
Though well I knew she'd not be true,
    I'd love her again.

If I were a young man
    With a brisk, healthy body,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
    With love of rum toddy,
Though I knew that I was spiting
    My old age with pain,
My happy lip would touch and sip
    Again and again.

If I were a young man
    With my bones full of marrow,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
    Straight as an arrow,
I'd store up no virtue
    For Heaven's distant plain,
I'd live at ease as I did please
    And sin once again.

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

Two Fusiliers

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Strong Beer

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Corporal Stare

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Cruel Moon

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Rabbi Ben Ezra

I.
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!

II.
Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearned Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!

III.
Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youths brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark

IV.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On j...

Robert Browning

Despondency. - An Ode.

I.

    Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,
    A burden more than I can bear,
        I set me down and sigh:
    O life! thou art a galling load,
    Along a rough, a weary road,
        To wretches such as I!
    Dim-backward as I cast my view,
        What sick'ning scenes appear!
    What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'
        Too justly I may fear!
            Still caring, despairing,
                Must be my bitter doom;
            My woes here shall close ne'er
                But with the closing tomb!

II.

    Happy, ye sons of busy life,
    Who, equal to the bustling strife,
        No other view regard!
    Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
    Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
        They b...

Robert Burns

Nunc Te Bacche Canam.

    'Tis done!    Henceforth nor joy nor woe
        Can make or mar my fate;
    I gaze around, above, below,
        And all is desolate.
    Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom;
        The mourner to be merry;
    But bid no ray to cheer the tomb
        In which my hopes I bury!

    I never thought the world was fair;
        That 'Truth must reign victorious';
    I knew that Honesty was rare;
        Wealth only meritorious.
    I knew that Women might deceive,
        And sometimes cared for money;
    That Lovers who in Love believe
        Find gall as well as honey.

    I knew that "wondrous Classic lore"
        Meant something most pedantic;
    That Mathematics were a bore,
        And Morals un-romantic.<...

Edward Woodley Bowling

Changed.

I know not why my soul is rack'd
Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.
I used to roam o'er glen and glade
Buoyant and blithe as other folk:
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.

A minstrel's fire within me burn'd,
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd
To shake.
All day I sang; of love, of fame,
Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
Until the thing almost became
A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.
I could not range the hills till high
Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly
As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhil...

Charles Stuart Calverley

In The Downhill Of Life

In the downhill of life, when I find Im declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that oerlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace oer the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
Ill envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secure...

William Collins

The Logger

    In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight,
    I am sitting by the camp-fire's fading cheer;
    Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill,
    And the breakers in the bay are moaning drear.
    The toilful hours are sped, the boys are long abed,
    And I alone a weary vigil keep;
    In the sightless, sullen sky I can hear the night-hawk cry,
    And the frogs in frenzied chorus from the creek.

    And somehow the embers' glow brings me back the long ago,
    The days of merry laughter and light song;
    When I sped the hours away with the gayest of the gay
    In the giddy whirl of fashion's festal throng.
    Oh, I ran a grilling race and I little recked the pace,
    For the lust of youth ran riot in my blood;
    But at l...

Robert William Service