Robert Graves Poems

“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,
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For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
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'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?
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Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
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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.
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Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
My Country Sentiment.
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I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
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You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I ?
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There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling,
Whether as learned bard or gifted child;
To it all lines or lesser gauds belong
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Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.
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