Tom Taylor.

On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
Homeward (still dazzled by the spark
Love kindled in some alley dark)
Young soldiers mooning in slow thought,
Start suddenly, turn about, are caught
By a dancing sound, merry as a grig,
Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig.
Never was blown from human cheeks
Music like this, that calls and speaks
Till sots and lovers from one string
Dangle and dance in the same ring.
Tom, of your piping I've heard said
And seen, that you can rouse the dead,
Dead-drunken men awash who lie
In stinking gutters hear your cry,
I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh,
Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then
You set them dancing, these dead men.
They stamp and prance with sobbing breath,
Victims of wine or love or death,
In ragged time they jump, they shake
Their heads, sweating to overtake
The impetuous tune flying ahead.
They flounder after, with legs of lead.
Now, suddenly as it started, play
Stops, the short echo dies away,
The corpses drop, a senseless heap,
The drunk men gaze about like sheep.
Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare
Up at the broad moon hanging there,
While Tom, five fingers to his nose,
Skips off...And the last bugle blows.

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

When I'm Killed

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Cupboard.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

To An Ungentle Critic

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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Tom Van Arden.

    Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
        Our warm fellowship is one
    Far too old to comprehend
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            Where two truant boys, astray,
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            Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

    Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
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James Whitcomb Riley

The Dead Quire

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,
Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,
The sad man sighed his phantasies:
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II

"'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers
Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,
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Had entered into rest.

III

"Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
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IV

"The singers had followed one by one,
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To mine their mouldering place.

V

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Ghost Raddled.

"Come, surly fellow, come!    A song!"
    What, madmen?    Sing to you?
Choose from the clouded tales of wrong
    And terror I bring to you.

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    Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.

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Robert von Ranke Graves

Tom ORoughley

Though logic choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,
Or so did Tom ORoughley say
That saw the surges running by,
And wisdom is a butterfly
And not a gloomy bird of prey.

If little planned is little sinned
But little need the grave distress.
Whats dying but a second wind?
How but in zigzag wantonness
Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?
Or something of that sort he said,
And if my dearest friend were dead
Id dance a measure on his grave.

William Butler Yeats

Haunted.

Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine,
Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing
And lay ghost hands on everything,
But leave the noonday's warm sunshine
To living lads for mirth and wine.

I met you suddenly down the street,
Strangers assume your phantom faces,
You grin at me from daylight places,
Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet
Dead men down the morning street.

Robert von Ranke Graves