Robert Graves

“Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girlsMarried impossible men?Simple self-sacrifice may be ruled out,And missionary endeavour, nine times out of ten.Repeat 'impossible men': not merely rustic,Foul-tempered or depraved(Dramatic foils chosen to show the worldHow well women behave, and always have behaved).Impossible men: idle, illiterate,Self-pitying, dirty, sly,For whose appearance even in City parksExcuses must be made to casual passers-by.Has God's supply of tolerable husbandsFallen, in fact, so low?Or do I always over-value womanAt the expense of man?Do I?It might be so.”

“Como se acostumbra en tales casos, el peral fue acusado de asesinato y sentenciado a ser desarraigado y quemado.(Ante la asfixia de Drusilo habiéndosele quedado una pera atravesada en la garganta)”

“Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.”

“You're all scum and you know it”

“On PortentsIf strange things happen where she is,So that men say that graves openAnd the dead walk, or that futurityBecomes a womb and the unborn are shed,Such portents are not to be wondered at,Being tourbillions in Time madeBy the strong pulling of her bladed mindThrough that ever-reluctant element.”

“The Cabbage WhiteThe butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has- who knows so well as I?- A just sense of how not to fly: He lurches here and here by guess And God and hope and hopelessness. Even the acrobatic swift Has not his flying-crooked gift.”

“I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammerer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius", am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the "golden predicament" from which I have never since become disentangled.”

“About this business of being a gentleman: I paid so heavily for the fourteen years of my gentleman’s education that I feel entitled, now and then, to get some sort of return.”

“Swinburne, by the way, when a very young man, had gone to Walter Savage Landor, then a very old man, and been given the poet’s blessing he asked for; and Landor when a child had been patted on the head by Dr Samuel Johnson; and Johnson when a child had been taken to London to be touched by Queen Anne for scrofula, the King’s evil; and Queen Anne when a child...”

“Nor had I any illusions about Algernon Charles Swinburne, who often used to stop my perambulator when he met it on Nurses’ Walk, at the edge of Wimbledon Common, and pat me on the head and kiss me: he was an inveterate pram-stopper and patter and kisser.”

“To recommend a monarchy on account of the prosperity it gives the provinces seems to me like recommending that a man should have liberty to treat his children as slaves, if at the same time he treats his slaves with reasonable consideration.”

“Malthus's school was in the centre of the town of Adrianople, and was not one of those monkish schools where education is miserably limited to the bread and water of the Holy Scriptures. Bread is good and water is good, but the bodily malnutrition that may be observed in prisoners or poor peasants who are reduced to this diet has its counterpart in the spiritual malnutrition of certain clerics. These can recite the genealogy of King David of the Jews as far back as Deucalion's Flood, and behind the Flood to Adam, without a mistake, or can repeat whole chapters of the Epistles of Saint Paul as fluently as if they were poems written in metre; but in all other respects are as ignorant as fish or birds.”

“But we are gifted, even in NovemberRawest of seasons, with so huge a senseOf her nakedly worn magnificenceWe forget cruelty and past betrayal,Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.”

“The child alone a poet is:Spring and Fairyland are his.”

“You've read of sunsets rich as mine.”

“There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money either.” - Robert Graves”

“Cuinchy bred rats. They came up from the canal, fed on the plentiful corpses, and multiplied exceedingly. While I stayed here with the Welsh, a new officer joined the company... When he turned in that night, he heard a scuffling, shone his torch on the bed, and found two rats on his blanket tussling for the possession of a severed hand.”

“I was thinking, "So, I’m Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now.”

“I made no more protests. What was the use of struggling against fate”

“And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion? Was I thinking of the Sibyl's prophecy, of the omen of the wolf-cub, of Pollio's advice, or of Briseis's dream? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my three Imperial predecessors, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, their lives and deaths? Of the great danger I was still in from the conspirators, and from the Senate, and from the Gaurds battalions at the Camp? Of Messalina and our unborn child? Of my grandmother Livia and my promise to deify her if I ever became Emperor? Of Postumus and Germanicus? Of Agrippina and Nero? Of Camilla? No, you would never guess what was passing through my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, 'So, I'm Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitals to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years' hard work in them. It wont be unfair. Pollio used to get attentive audiences by giving expensive dinners. He was a very sound historian, and the last of the Romans. My history of Carthage is full of amusing anecdotes. I'm sure that they'll enjoy it.”

“The function of poetry is religious invocation of the muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites.”

“To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.”

“Welsh Incident 'But that was nothing to what things came outFrom the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'Nothing at all of any things like that.'What were they, then?' 'All sorts of queer things,Things never seen or heard or written about,Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiarThings. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,Though all came moving slowly out together.'Describe just one of them.' 'I am unable.'What were their colours?' 'Mostly nameless colours,Colours you'd like to see; but one was puceOr perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.Some had no colour.' 'Tell me, had they legs?'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'But did these things come out in any order?'What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?Who else was present? How was the weather?'I was coming to that. It was half-past threeOn Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog JesuOn thrity-seven shimmering instrumentsCollecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed themFirst in good Welsh and then in fluent English,Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,Not keeping time to the band, moving seawardSilently at a snail's pace. But at lastThe most odd, indescribable thing of allWhich hardly one man there could see for wonderDid something recognizably a something.'Well, what?' 'It made a noise.' 'A frightening noise?'No, no.' 'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morningIn Chapel, close before the second psalm.'What did the mayor do?' 'I was coming to that.”

“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, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!” “Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight. The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right. If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, God damn it! you’ll not better them by drinking. They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands. The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands, And these same men before the autumn’s fall Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul.”

“The Persian VersionTruth-loving Persians do not dwell uponThe trivial skirmish fought near Marathon.As for the Greek theatrical traditionWhich represents that summer's expeditionNot as a mere reconnaisance in forceBy three brigades of foot and one of horse(Their left flank covered by some obsoleteLight craft detached from the main Persian fleet)But as a grandiose, ill-starred attemptTo conquer Greece - they treat it with contempt;And only incidentally refuteMajor Greek claims, by stressing what reputeThe Persian monarch and the Persian nationWon by this salutary demonstration:Despite a strong defence and adverse weatherAll arms combined magnificently together.”

“To Juan at the Winter Solstice There is one story and one story onlyThat will prove worth your telling,Whether as learned bard or gifted child;To it all lines or lesser gauds belongThat startle with their shiningSuch common stories as they stray into.Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,Or strange beasts that beset you,Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turnsBelow the Boreal Crown,Prison to all true kings that ever reigned?Water to water, ark again to ark,From woman back to woman:So each new victim treads unfalteringlyThe never altered circuit of his fate,Bringing twelve peers as witnessBoth to his starry rise and starry fall.Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty,All fish below the thighs?She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling,How many the King hold back?Royally then he barters life for love.Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,Whose coils contain the ocean,Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,Battles three days and nights,To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly,The owl hoots from the elder,Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.The log groans and confesses:There is one story and one story only.Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,Do not forget what flowersThe great boar trampled down in ivy time.Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,Her sea-blue eyes were wildBut nothing promised that is not performed.”

“The White GoddessAll saints revile her, and all sober menRuled by the God Apollo's golden mean -In scorn of which we sailed to find herIn distant regions likeliest to hold herWhom we desired above all things to know,Sister of the mirage and echo.It was a virtue not to stay,To go our headstrong and heroic waySeeking her out at the volcano's head,Among pack ice, or where the track had fadedBeyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's,Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stirWill celebrate with green the Mother,And every song-bird shout awhile for her;But we are gifted, even in NovemberRawest of seasons, with so huge a senseOf her nakedly worn magnificenceWe forget cruelty and past betrayal,Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.”

“Manticor in Arabia(The manticors of the montainesMighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)Thick and scented daisies spreadWhere with surface dull like leadArabian pools of slime inviteManticors down from neighbouring heightTo dip heads, to cool fiery bloodIn oozy depths of sucking mud.Sing then of ringstraked manticor,Man-visaged tiger who of yoreHeld whole Arabian waste in feeWith raging pride from sea to sea,That every lesser tribe would flyThose armed feet, that hooded eye;Till preying on himself at lastManticor dwindled, sank, was passedBy gryphon flocks he did disdain.Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reignIn ancient keep of manticorAgreed old foe can rise no more.Only here from lakes of slimeDrinks manticor and bides due time:Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon treeMust mount his pyre and burn and beRenewed again, till in such hourAs seventh Phoenix flames to powerAnd lifts young feathers, overniceFrom scented pool of steamy spiceShall manticor his sway restoreAnd rule Arabian plains once more.”

“Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcherSwept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,So let the imprisoned larks escape and flySinging about her head, as she rode by.”

“HauntedGulp down your wine, old friends of mine,Roar through the darkness, stamp and singAnd lay ghost hands on everything,But leave the noonday's warm sunshineTo 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 greetDead men down the morning street.”

“As I walked out one harvest nightAbout the stroke of One,The Moon attained to her full heightStood beaming like the Sun.She exorcised the ghostly wheatTo mute assent in Love's defeatWhose tryst had now begun.The fields lay sick beneath my tread,A tedious owlet cried;The nightingale above my headWith this or that replied,Like man and wife who nightly keepInconsequent debate in sleepAs they dream side by side.Your phantom wore the moon's cold mask,My phantom wore the same,Forgetful of the feverish taskIn hope of which they came,Each image held the other's eyesAnd watched a grey distraction riseTo cloud the eager flame.To cloud the eager flame of love,To fog the shining gate:They held the tyrannous queen aboveSole mover of their fate,They glared as marble statues glareAcross the tessellated stairOr down the Halls of State.And now cold earth was Arctic sea,Each breath came dagger keen,Two bergs of glinting ice were we,The broad moon sailed between;There swam the mermaids, tailed and finned,And Love went by upon the windAs though it had not been.- Full Moon”

“Down, wanton, down! Have you no shameThat at the whisper of Love's name,Or Beauty's, presto! up you raiseYour angry head and stand at gaze?Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reachThe ravelin and effect a breach--Indifferent what you storm or why,So be that in the breach you die!Love may be blind, but Love at leastKnows what is man and what mere beast;Or Beauty wayward, but requiresMore delicacy from her squires.Tell me, my witless, whose one boastCould be your staunchness at the post,When were you made a man of partsTo think fine and profess the arts?Will many-gifted Beauty comeBowing to your bald rule of thumb,Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!”

“The difference between you and her(whom I to you did once prefer)Is clear enough to settle:She like a diamond shone, but youShine like an early drop of dewPoised on a red rose petal.The dew-drop carries in its eyeMountain and forest, sea and sky,With every change of weather;Contrariwise, a diamond splitsThe prospect into idle bitsThat none can piece together.”

“Call it a good marriage -For no one ever questionedHer warmth, his masculinity,Their interlocking views;Except one stray graphologistWho frowned in speculationAt her h's and her s's,His p's and w's.Though few would still subscribeTo the monogamic axiomThat strife below the hip-bonesNeed not estrange the heart,Call it a good marriage:More drew those two together,Despite a lack of children,Than pulled them apart.Call it a good marriage:They never fought in public,They acted circumspectlyAnd faced the world with pride;Thus the hazards of their love-bedWere none of our damned business -Till as jurymen we sat onTwo deaths by suicide.”

“Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,Drums that rattle and roar!A mother and daughter stood togetherBeside 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 frownHolding back her daughter.'But mother, see, they faint with thirst,They march away to die,''Ah, sweet, had I but known at firstTheir throats are always dry.''There is no water can supply themIn western streams that flow,There is no fruit can satisfy themOn orchard trees that grow.''Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,A soldier apples and water,So may I die before you coolYour father's drouth, my daughter.”

“He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits:This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid.Till in the end he could not change the tragic habitsThis formula for drawing comic rabbits made.”

“Poetry began in the matriarchal age, and derives its magic from the moon, not from the sun. No poet can hope to understand the nature of poetry unless he has had a vision of the Naked King crucified to the lopped oak, and watched the dancers, red-eyed from the acrid smoke of the sacrificial fires, stamping out the measure of the dance, their bodies bent uncouthly forward, with a monotonous chant of "Kill! kill! kill!" and "Blood! blood! blood!”

“Poetry is no more a narcotic than a stimulant; it is a universal bittersweet mixture for all possible household emergencies and its action varies accordingly as it is taken in a wineglass or a tablespoon, inhaled, gargled or rubbed on the chest by hard fingers covered with rings.”

“I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.”

“Love is universal migraine,A bright stain on the visionBlotting out reason.Symptoms of true loveAre leanness, jealousy,Laggard dawns;Are omens and nightmares -Listening for a knock,Waiting for a sign:For a touch of her fingersIn a darkened room,For a searching look.Take courage, lover!Could you endure such painAt any hand but hers?”

“In love as in sport, the amateur status must be strictly maintained.”

“If I were a girl, I'd despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.”

“A well chosen anthology is a complete dispensary of medicine for the more common mental disorders, and may be used as much for prevention as cure.”

“Love at first sight'some say misnamingDiscovery of twinned helplessnessAgainst the huge tug of procreation.But friendship at first sight? This alsoCatches fiercely at the surprised heartSo that the cheek blanches then blushes.”

“You mean that people who continue virtuous in an old-fashioned way must inevitably suffer in times like these?”

“She tells her love while half asleep, In the dark hours, With half-words whispered low: As Earth stirs in her winter sleep And puts out grass and flowers Despite the snow, Despite the falling snow.”

“If there's no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money”

“To jest dzika ziemia, kraj, który sam wybrałem,W nim szorstka, skalna góra, wielkie wrzosowisko.Rzadko na pustych polach tych głos jakiś słychać,Chyba głos zimnej wody, co gdzieniegdzie płyniePrzez skały i wrzos wiotki rosnący w pustkowiu.Mysz tędy przebiegnie ni ptak nie przeleci,Bojąc się myszołowa, co po niebie płynie.Szybuje tam i krąży, kołysząc skrzydłami,Królestwo swe szerokie bystrym mierzy okiem,Łowi drżenie niewielkich ukrytych żyjątek,Rozdziera na kawałki i zrzuca je z nieba;Tkliwości i litości serce nie dopuszcza,Tam gdzie woda i skała tylko są pokarmem - Życie niełatwe, strachu jest pełne i wstrząsów.Czas nigdy nie wędrował do tego odludzia,Wrzos i czarne bażyny kwitną po terminie,Skały sterczą, strumyki spływają śpiewając,O to, czy pora wczesna, czy późna, nie dbają;Niebo płynie nad głową, błękitne lub szare;Zimę poznałbyś po tym, że śniegiem zacina,Gdyby nie to, że czerwiec jej zbroi się ima. Jednak to moja ziemia, najbardziej ją kocham,Pierwszy kraj, jaki powstał z Potopu, Chaosu;Nie ma w nim żadnych dolin miłych dla popasu,Nie ma podkutych koni, krwią nie był kupiony.Kraj odwieczny - pagórki są w nim fortecamiDla półbogów, gdy kroczą po ziemi, strach siejącWśród tłumu tłustych mieszczan w odległych dolinach.”

“As was the custom in such cases, the pear tree was charged with murder and sentenced to be uprooted and burned.”

“Never use the word 'audience.' The very idea of a public, unless the poet is writing for money, seems wrong to me. Poets don't have an 'audience': They're talking to a single person all the time.”