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Robert Graves

Robert Graves was a poet, professor, and the author of Goodbye to All That (1929), a landmark anti-heroic memoir of life in the trenches during World War I. Graves is perhaps even better known for hi…

Robert Graves: Escape

Escape(August 6, 1916.—Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.) ... But I was dead, an hour or more. I woke when I'd…

Robert Graves: 1915

1915I'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 Aut…

Robert Graves: Babylon

BabylonThe 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 Spri…

Robert Graves: Careers

CareersFather is quite the greatest poet That ever lived anywhere. You say you're going to write great music— I chose that first: it's unfair. Besides, now I can't be the greatest painter …

Robert Graves: Faun

FaunHere down this very way, Here only yesterday King Faun went leaping. He sang, with careless shout Hurling his name about; He sang, with oaken stock His steps from rock to rock In safet…

Robert Graves: Finland

FinlandFeet and faces tingle In that frore land: Legs wobble and go wingle, You scarce can stand.The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with …

Robert Graves: In the Wilderness

In the WildernessChrist of His gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bitterns c…

Robert Graves: Jonah

JonahA purple whale Proudly sweeps his tail Towards Nineveh; Glassy green Surges between A mile of roaring sea."O town of gold, Of splendour multifold, Lucre and lust, Leviathan's eye Can sure…

Robert Graves: Marigolds

MarigoldsWith a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.Look: the constant marigold Spring…