Treasure Island

Robert Graves

(1895 - 1985 / London / England)

Quotations

  • ''Your eyes were frosted starlight,
    Your heart fire and snow.
    Who was it said, "I love you"?
    Alice: Mother, let me go!''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. A Frosty Night (l. 25-28). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
    35 person liked.
    27 person did not like.
  • ''Her image was my ensign: snows melted,
    Hedges sprouted, the moon tenderly shone,
    The owls trilled with tongues of nightingale.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. A Love Story (l. 13-15). . . Norton Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. M. H. Abrams, general ed. (5th ed., 1986) W. W. Norton & Company.
  • ''her image
    Warped in the weather, turned beldamish.
    Then back came winter on me at a bound,
    The pallid sky heaved with a moon-quake.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. A Love Story (l. 17-20). . . Norton Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. M. H. Abrams, general ed. (5th ed., 1986) W. W. Norton & Company.
  • ''Has God's supply of tolerable husbands
    Fallen, in fact, so low?
    Or do I always over-value woman
    At the expense of man?
    Do I?
    It might be so.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. A Slice of Wedding Cake (l. 13-18). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girls
    Married impossible men?
    Simple self-sacrifice may be ruled out,
    And missionary endeavour, nine times out of ten.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. A Slice of Wedding Cake (l. 1-4). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
    That at the whisper of Love's name,
    Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
    Your angry head and stand at gaze?''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist. Down, Wanton, Down! Collected Poems (1965).
  • ''The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
    (His honest idiocy of flight)
    Will never now, it is too late,
    Master the art of flying straight,''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. Flying Crooked (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of Short Poems, The. P. J. Kavanagh and James Michie, eds. Oxford University Press.
  • ''Like man and wife who nightly keep
    Inconsequent debate in sleep
    As they dream side by side.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. Full Moon (l. 12-14). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.
  • ''And love went by upon the wind
    As though it had not been.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British poet, novelist, critic. Full Moon (l. 34-35). NOBE. New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.
  • ''The difference between prose logic and poetic thought is simple. The logician uses words as a builder uses bricks, for the unemotional deadness of his academic prose; and is always coining newer, deader words with a natural preference for Greek formations. The poet avoids the entire vocabulary of logic unless for satiric purposes, and treats words as living creatures with a preference for those with long emotional histories dating from mediaeval times. Poetry at its purest is, indeed, a defiance of logic.''
    Robert Graves (1895-1985), British novelist, poet. "Genius," Difficult Questions, Easy Answers, Doubleday (1972).

Read more quotations »

Not to sleep

Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
Counting no sheep and careless of chimes
Welcoming the dawn confabulation
Of birch, her children, who discuss idly
Fanciful details of the promised coming -
Will she be wearing red, or russet, or blue,
Or pure white? - whatever she wears, glorious:
Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
This is given to few but at last to me,

[Hata Bildir]