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.

July 24, 1895

December 7, 1985

English, German, French

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1915

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,
In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
Red poppy floods of June,
August, and yellowing Autumn, so
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,
And you've been everything.

Dear, you've been everything that I most lack
In these soul-deadening trenches, pictures, books,
Music, the quiet of an English wood,
Beautiful comrade-looks,
The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,
The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,
And Peace, and all that's good.

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Ballad Of Nursery Rhyme

Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue's root,
Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument.

May sudden justice overtake
And snap the froward pen,
That old and palsied poets shake
Against the minds of men;

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
In far-flung webs of ink
The utmost ends of human thought,
Till nothing's left to think.

But may the gift of heavenly peace
And glory for all time
Keep the boy Tom who tending geese

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Boy In Church

"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!"
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.

Outside it blows wetter and wetter,
The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better
The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro
In silence like a shadow-show.

The parson's voice runs like a river
Over smooth rocks. I like this church:
The pews are staid, they never shiver,
They never bend or sway or lurch.
"Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain
That draws down Grace from Heaven again."

I add the hymns up, over and over,
Until there's not the least...

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Child's Nightmare

Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I'll say (you've heard it said before)
"War's Hell!" and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

Robert von Ranke Graves

A First Review.

Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
    Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
    My Country Sentiment.

But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear,
    True love's the stuff we need!
With laughing children and the running deer
    That makes a book indeed."

Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap,
    Though much beloved by me,
"Robert, have done with nursery pap,
    Write like a man," says he.

Hate and Fear are not wanted here,
    Nor Toys nor Country Lovers,
Everything they took from my new poem book
    But the flyleaf and the covers.

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Frosty Night.

        Mother

Alice, dear, what ails you,
    Dazed and white and shaken?
Has the chill night numbed you?
    Is it fright you have taken?

        Alice


Mother, I am very well,
    I felt never better,
Mother, do not hold me so,
    Let me write my letter.

        Mother

Sweet, my dear, what ails you?

        Alice

No, but I am well;
The night was cold and frosty,
There's no more to tell.

        Mother

Ay, the night was frosty,
    Coldly gaped the moon,
Yet the birds seemed twittering
    Through green boughs of June.

Soft and thick the snow lay,
    Stars danced in the sky.
Not all the lambs of May-day
    Skip so bold and high.

Your feet we...

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Lover Since Childhood

Tangled in thought am I,
Stumble in speech do I?
Do I blunder and blush for the reason why?
Wander aloof do I,
Lean over gates and sigh,
Making friends with the bee and the butterfly?

If thus and thus I do,
Dazed by the thought of you,
Walking my sorrowful way in the early dew,
My heart cut through and through
In this despair of you,
Starved for a word or a look will my hope renew:

Give then a thought for me
Walking so miserably,
Wanting relief in the friendship of flower or tree;
Do but remember, we
Once could in love agree,
Swallow your pride, let us be as we used to be.

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Pinch Of Salt

When a dream is born in you
With a sudden clamorous pain,
When you know the dream is true
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.

Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box
Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.

Poet, never chase the dream.
Laugh yourself and turn away.
Mask your hunger, let it seem
Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Rhyme Of Friends.

(In a Style Skeltonical)

Listen now this time
Shortly to my rhyme
That herewith starts
About certain kind hearts
In those stricken parts
That lie behind Calais,
Old crones and aged men
And young children.
About the Picardais,
Who earned my thousand thanks,
Dwellers by the banks
Of mournful Somme
(God keep me therefrom
Until War ends),
These, then, are my friends:
Madame Averlant Lune,
From the town of Bethune;
Good Professeur la Brune
From that town also.
He played the piccolo,
And left his locks to grow.
Dear Madame Hojdes,
Sempstress of Saint Fe.
With Jules and Susette
And Antoinette.
Her children, my sweethearts,
For whom I made darts
Of paper to throw
In their mimic show,
"La guerr...

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Song For Two Children.

"Make a song, father, a new little song,
        All for Jenny and Nancy."
    Balow lalow or Hey derry down,
        Or else what might you fancy?

    Is there any song sweet enough
        For Nancy and for Jenny?
    Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
        "Indeed I know not any."

"I've counted the miles to Babylon,
        I've flown the earth like a bird,
    I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
        But no such song have I heard."

"Some speak of Alexander,
        And some of Hercules,
    But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny,
        Where are there any like these?"

Robert von Ranke Graves

Advice To Lovers.

I knew an old man at a Fair
Who made it his twice-yearly task
To clamber on a cider cask
And cry to all the yokels there:,

"Lovers to-day and for all time
    Preserve the meaning of my rhyme:
    Love is not kindly nor yet grim
    But does to you as you to him.

"Whistle, and Love will come to you,
    Hiss, and he fades without a word,
    Do wrong, and he great wrong will do,
    Speak, he retells what he has heard.

"Then all you lovers have good heed
    Vex not young Love in word or deed:
    Love never leaves an unpaid debt,
    He will not pardon nor forget."

The old man's voice was sweet yet loud
And this shows what a man was he,
He'd scatter apples to the crowd
And give great draughts of cider, free.

Robert von Ranke Graves

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:

Robert von Ranke Graves

Allie.

Allie, call the birds in,
    The birds from the sky.
Allie calls, Allie sings,
    Down they all fly.
First there came
Two white doves
    Then a sparrow from his nest,
Then a clucking bantam hen,
    Then a robin red-breast.

Allie, call the beasts in,
    The beasts, every one.
Allie calls, Allie sings,
    In they all run.
First there came
Two black lambs,
    Then a grunting Berkshire sow,
Then a dog without a tail,
    Then a red and white cow.

Allie, call the fish up,
    The fish from the stream.
Allie calls, Allie sings,
    Up they all swim.
First there came
Two gold fish,
    A minnow and a miller's thumb,
Then a pair of loving trout,
    Then the twisted eels come.

Allie, call ...

Robert von Ranke Graves

An Old Twenty-Third Man

"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?"
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup
The red-faced old centurion started up,
Cursed, battered on the table. "No," he said,
"Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion's dead,
Dead in the first year of this damned campaign,
The Legion's dead, dead, and won't rise again.
Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die,
But we need pity also, you and I,
Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss,
Who live to see the Legion come to this,
Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot,
Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot.
O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh!
Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by,
The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine.
Is that the Legion, G...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Apples And Water.

Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,
    Drums that rattle and roar!
A mother and daughter stood together
    Beside their cottage door.

"Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,
    The dust is shaken high,
With labouring breath the soldiers pass,
    Their lips are cracked and dry."

"Mother, I'll throw them apples down,
    I'll bring them pails of water."
The mother turned with an angry frown
    Holding back her daughter.

"But mother, see, they faint with thirst,
    They march away to die,"
"Ah, sweet, had I but known at first
    Their throats are always dry."

"There is no water can supply them
    In western streams that flow,
There is no fruit can satisfy them
    On orchard trees that grow."

"Once in m...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Babylon

The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all's poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He's forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April's glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer's gone,
Mother Goose a...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Baloo Loo For Jenny.

Sing baloo loo for Jenny
    And where is she gone?
Away to spy her mother's land,
    Riding all alone.

To the rich towns of Scotland,
    The woods and the streams,
High upon a Spanish horse
    Saddled for her dreams.

By Oxford and by Chester,
    To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,
Then once across the borderland
    She shall find no need.

A loaf for her at Stirling,
    A scone at Carlisle,
Honeyed cakes at Edinbro',
    That shall make her smile.

At Aberdeen clear cider,
    Mead for her at Nairn,
A cup of wine at John o' Groats,
    That shall please my bairn.

Sing baloo loo for Jenny,
    Mother will be fain
To see her little truant child
    Riding home again.

Robert von Ranke Graves

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