Hate Not, Fear Not.

Kill if you must, but never hate:
    Man is but grass and hate is blight,
The sun will scorch you soon or late,
    Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
    That cankers root and fruit alike,
Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
    Strike with no madness when you strike.

Fever and fear distract the world,
    But calm be you though madmen shout,
Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
    Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!

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

It's A Queer Time

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

When I'm Killed

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Careers

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Baloo Loo For Jenny.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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Hate.

While love inspires, and friendship warms
All hearts, in ev'ry state,
High over thee, grim hatred storms,
As pitiless as fate.

Remorseless, unrelenting, hard,
It holds its stubborn way,
Which duty's claim cannot retard,
Nor righteous thoughts delay.

With steady look, it keeps its eye
Fixed firmly on its foe;
With panting zeal it hurries by,
To make its deadly throw.

In bosoms white it sits in state,
And often, faces fair
Conceal the rankling fire of hate,
Which looks may not declare.

It is not strange to church or state,
For oft beneath the gown
Of prelate grave, and judge sedate,
It sits with hideous frown.

Disturbing truth and righteous law,
It scorns the bitter tear,
And laughs at all we hold in aw...

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I Murder Hate.

I.

    I murder hate by field or flood,
        Tho' glory's name may screen us:
    In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,
        Life-giving wars of Venus.

II.

    The deities that I adore
        Are social Peace and Plenty,
    I'm better pleas'd to make one more,
        Than be the death of twenty.

Robert Burns

Of Hatred And Anger. From Proverbial Philosophy

Blunted unto goodness is the heart which anger never stirreth,
But that which hatred swelleth, is keen to carve out evil.
Anger is a noble infirmity, the generous failing of the just.
The one degree that riseth above zeal, asserting the prerogatives of virtue:
But hatred is a slow continuing crime, a fire in the bad man's breast,
A dull and hungry flame, for ever craving insatiate.
Hatred would harm another; anger would indulge itself;
Hatred is a simmering poison; anger, the opening of a valve:
Hatred destroyeth as the upas-tree; anger smiteth as a staff:
Hatred is the atmosphere of hell; but anger is known in heaven.
Is there not a righteous wrath, an anger just and holy,
When goodness is sitting in the dust, and wickedness enthroned on Babel?
Doth pity condemn guilt?  is just...

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Prospice

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad lifes arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns th...

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Here They Lie.

Here they lie who once learned here
    All that is taught of hurt or fear;
Dead, but by free will they died:
    They were true men, they had pride.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Country At War.

And what of home, how goes it, boys,
While we die here in stench and noise?
"The hill stands up and hedges wind
Over the crest and drop behind;
Here swallows dip and wild things go
On peaceful errands to and fro
Across the sloping meadow floor,
And make no guess at blasting war.
In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder
Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder,
And shoot again.    Meadows yet show
Alternate white of drifted snow
And daisies.    Children play at shop,
Warm days, on the flat boulder-top,
With wildflower coinage, and the wares
Are bits of glass and unripe pears.
Crows perch upon the backs of sheep,
The wheat goes yellow:    women reap,
Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond,
Flutter the hedge and fly beyond.
So the first things ...

Robert von Ranke Graves