Robert von Ranke Graves

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, In the fields between La Bass'e and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,

Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know

"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!" My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble,

Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,

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)

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

Mother Alice, dear, what ails you, Dazed and white and shaken?

Tangled in thought am I, Stumble in speech do I? Do I blunder and blush for the reason why?

When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain, When you know the dream is true

(In a Style Skeltonical) Listen now this time Shortly to my rhyme

"Make a song, father, a new little song, All for Jenny and Nancy." Balow lalow or Hey derry down,

I knew an old man at a Fair Who made it his twice-yearly task To clamber on a cider cask

Father Have you spent the money I gave you to-day? John

Allie, call the birds in, The birds from the sky. Allie calls, Allie sings,

"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?" From the sad magic of his fragrant cup

Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, Drums that rattle and roar! A mother and daughter stood together

The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim,

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

Though I am an old man With my bones very brittle, Though I am a poor old man

Father is quite the greatest poet That ever lived anywhere. You say you're going to write great music,

Cherries of the night are riper Than the cherries pluckt at noon Gather to your fairy piper

Back from the line one night in June, I gave a dinner at Bethune, Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal

And what of home, how goes it, boys, While we die here in stench and noise? "The hill stands up and hedges wind

An ancient saga tells us how In the beginning the First Cow (For nothing living yet had birth

Mother Oh, what a heavy sigh! Dicky, are you ailing?

Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ours

(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 already passed the door

Here down this very way, Here only yesterday King Faun went leaping.

Feet and faces tingle In that frore land: Legs wobble and go wingle,

Take now a country mood, Resolve, distil it: Nine Acre swaying alive,

I now delight In spite Of the might

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

"Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea, "Not so much Sun, Not so much Sun."

(FOR D.C.T., KILLED AT FRICOURT, MARCH, 1916) Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook:

Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late,

Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing And lay ghost hands on everything,

Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle, And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather? He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,

Here they lie who once learned here All that is taught of hurt or fear; Dead, but by free will they died:

Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas! The candles a tall lightship; my two hands

Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire,

Christ of His gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness;

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head. One moment you'll be crouching at your gun

As Jane walked out below the hill, She saw an old man standing still, His eyes in tranced sorrow bound

What could be dafter Than John Skelton's laughter? What sound more tenderly

A purple whale Proudly sweeps his tail Towards Nineveh;

I never dreamed we'd meet that day In our old haunts down Fricourt way, Plotting such marvellous journeys there

His eyes are quickened so with grief, He can watch a grass or leaf Every instant grow; he can

To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone; In his grotto the maiden sits alone. She gazes up with a weary smile

Henry, Henry, do you love me? Do I love you, Mary? Oh, can you mean to liken me

(The manticors of the montaines Mighte feed them on thy braines., Skelton.) Thick and scented daisies spread

With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about,

In my body lives a flame, Flame that burns me all the day; When a fierce sun does the same,

Old Mr. Philosopher Comes for Ben and Claire, An ugly man, a tall man,

Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told, Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, The King of Persia walked:    oh, the chilling cold!

Nancy "Edward back from the Indian Sea, What have you brought for Nancy?"

I. Nine of the clock, oh! Wake my lazy head!

Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Owls: they whinney down the night, Bats go zigzag by. Ambushed in shadow out of sight

Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot. A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot. The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,

He had met hours of the clock he never guessed    before, Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,

This is a wild land, country of my choice, With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. Seldom in these acres is heard any voice

BOY Most venerable and learned sir, Tall and true Philosopher,

Small gnats that fly In hot July And lodge in sleeping ears,

When outside the icy rain Comes leaping helter-skelter, Shall I tie my restive brain

(The Little Saucepan) Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale Took shelter from a shower of hail,

'Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?' 'We'll be awake till reveill',

"What do you think The bravest drink Under the sky?"

Love, do not count your labour lost Though I turn sullen, grim, retired Even at your side; my thought is crossed

One moonlit night a ship drove in, A ghost ship from the west, Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,

Down in the mud I lay, Tired out by my long day Of five damned days and nights,

The silent shepherdess, She of my vows, Here with me exchanging love

An Idyll Back from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said,

As Jesus and his followers Upon a Sabbath morn Were walking by a wheat field

Under this loop of honeysuckle, A creeping, coloured caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,

Here in turn succeed and rule Carter, smith, and village fool, Then again the place is known

The cruel Moon hangs out of reach Up above the shadowy beech. Her face is stupid, but her eye

Mother What's in that cupboard, Mary? Mary

He fell in victory's fierce pursuit, Holed through and through with shot, A sabre sweep had hacked him deep

Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to rhyme, The form and measure of that vast

Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese,

The bugler sent a call of high romance, "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,

Near Martinpuisch that night of hell Two men were struck by the same shell, Together tumbling in one heap

You young friskies who today Jump and fight in Father's hay With bows and arrows and wooden spears,

Across the room my silent love I throw, Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight, Your young stern profile and industrious fingers

When I was not quite five years old I first saw the blue picture book, And Fraulein Spitzenburger told

Lost manor where I walk continually A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood; Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling

Can I find True-Love a gift In this dark hour to restore her, When body's vessel breaks adrift,

Near Clapham village, where fields began, Saint Edward met a beggar man. It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled,

My familiar ghost again Comes to see what he can see, Critic, son of Conscious Brain,

Blacksmith Green had three strong sons, With bread and beef did fill 'em, Now John and Ned are perished and dead,

A simple nosegay! was that much to ask? (Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing). He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.

Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! The other birds woke all around, Rising with toot and howl they stirred

Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown: Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down,

Restless and hot two children lay Plagued with uneasy dreams, Each wandered lonely through false day

The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine.... But what's the use of setting down

Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know

It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,

(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: "I am just finishing my 'Faun's Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.") Here by a snowbound river In scrapen holes we shiver,

On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, Homeward (still dazzled by the spark

Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true To all those famous vows you've made, Will you love me as I love you

And have we done with War at last? Well, we've been lucky devils both, And there's no need of pledge or oath

Lady, lovely lady, Careless and gay! Once when a beggar called

When I'm killed, don't think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me