Robert Graves

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The holders of the copyright on the poems of Robert Graves wish it known that, although the poems on this page are in the public domain in the United States, they are fully protected in many other countries. They have asked me to state that, in those countries, no Graves material may be downloaded or reproduced without the permission of A.P. Watt, Ltd. 20 John Street London, WC1N 2DR

It's a Queer Time

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

Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun :

The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast --

No time to think -- leave all -- and off you go . . .

To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,

To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime --

Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Rest West!

It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yeling 'Fag!'

When somehow something gives and your feet drag.

You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain

And find . . . You're digging tunnels through the hay

In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.

O springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!

You're back in the old sailor suit again.

It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out --

A great roar -- the trench shakes and falls about --

You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo!

Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,

Hanky to nose -- theat lyddite makes a stench --

Getting her pinafore all over grime.

Funny! because she died ten years ago!

It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;

Up jump the Boshes, rifles thump and click,

You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:

Even good Christians don't like passing straight

From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate

To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime

Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well today . . .

It's a queer time.

Goliath and David

For D.C.T., killed at Fricourt, March 1916)

Once an earlier David took

Smooth pebbles from a brook:

Out between the lines he went

To that one-sided tournament,

A shepherd boy who stood out fine

And young to fight a Philistine

Clad all in brazen mail. He swears

That he's killed lions, he's killed bears,

And those that scorn the God of Zion

Shall perish so like bear or lion.

But . . . the historian of that fight

Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range

Goliath marvels at this strange

Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.

David's clear eye measures the length;

With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,

Poises a moment thoughtfully,

And hurls with a long vengeful swing.

The pebble, humming from the sling

Like a wild bee, flies a sure line

For the forehead of the Philistine;

Then . . . but there comes a brazen clink.

And quicker than a man can think

Goliath's shield parries each cast.

Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last.

Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye,

Towering unhurt six cubit's high.

Says foolish David, 'Damn your shield!

And damn my sling! but I'll not yield.'

He takes his staff of Mamre oak,

A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke

The skull of many a wolf and fox

Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.

Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh

Can scatter chariots like blown chaff

To rout: but David, calm and brave,

Holds his ground, for God will save.

Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!

Shame for Beauty's overthrow!

(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)

One cruel backhand sabre cut --

'I'm hit! I'm killed!' young David cries,

Throws blindly foward, chokes . . . and dies.

And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,

Goliath straddles over him.

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 strain,

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.

Star-Talk

'Are you awake, Gemelli,

This frosty night?'

'We'll be awake till reveillé,

Which is Sunrise,' say the Gemelli,

'It's no good trying to go to sleep:

If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,

But rest is hopeless to-night,

But rest is hopeless to-night.'

'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,

This frosty night?'

'Yes, and so are the Hyads:

See us cuddle and hug,' say the Pleiads,

'All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:

We huddle together like birds in a storm:

It's bitter weather to-night,

It's bitter weather to-night.'

'What do you hunt, Orion,

This starry night?'

'The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,

And the Great Bear,' says Orion,

'With my starry quiver and beautiful belt

I am trying to find a good thick pelt

To warm my shoulders to-night,

To warm my shoulders to-night.

'Did you hear that, Great She-bear,

This frosty night?

'Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare

Of my own big fur,' says the She-bear,

'I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:

The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,

And the frost so cruel to-night!

And the frost so cruel to-night!'

'How is your trade, Aquarius,

This frosty night?'

'Complaints is many and various

And my feet are cold,' says Aquarius,

'There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,

And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,

And the pump has frozen to-night,

And the pump has frozen to-night.'

In the Wilderness

Christ 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 call

From ruined palace-wall,

Answered them brotherly.

He held communion

With the she-pelican

Of lonely piety.

Basilisk, cockatrice,

Flocked to his homilies,

With mail of dread device,

With monstrous barbèd stings,

With eager dragon-eyes;

Great rats on leather wings

And poor blind broken things,

Foul in their miseries.

And ever with him went,

Of all his wanderings

Comrade, with ragged coat,

Gaunt ribs -- poor innocent --

Bleeding foot, burning throat,

The guileless old scape-goat;

For forty nights and days

Followed in Jesus' ways,

Sure guard behind him kept,

Tears like a lover wept.

The Boy in Church

'Gabble-gabble . . . brethren . . . gabble-gabble!'

My window glimpses larch and heather.

I hardly hear the tuneful babble,

Not knowing nor much caring whether

The text is praise or exhortation,

Prayer of 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 silenece 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 mistake.

Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover!

It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the Lake?

The red light from his mantle passes

Across the broad memorial brasses.

.      .      .      .      .

It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking.

Lolling and letting reason nod,

With ugly, serious people linking

Prayer-chains for a forgiving God.

But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying

WIth furious zeal like madmen praying.

The Lady Visitor in the Pauper Ward

Why do you break upon this old, cool peace,

This painted peace of ours,

With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese,

With garish flowers?

Why do you churn smooth waters rough again,

Selfish old Skin-and-bone?

Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain,

Leave us alone.

Not Dead

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.

Caressingly I stroke

Rough bark of the friendly oak,

A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.

Turf burns with pleasant smoke:

I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Over the whole wood in a little while

Breaks his slow smile.