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Robert Graves was an English poet, translator, and novelist.
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| Rating: 3.78 |
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Robert Graves's poems
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With a fork drive Nature out,
She will ever yet return;
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"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?
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She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
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You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
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Rating: 1.00
Votes: 1 |
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'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
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Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain,
I know that David's with me here again.
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Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
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Rating: 3.00
Votes: 1 |
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The difference between you and her
(whom I to you did once prefer)
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Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,
How hot the scent is of the summer rose,
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Rating: 5.00
Votes: 3 |
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Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,
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Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
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Rating: 3.00
Votes: 1 |
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NEAR Clapham village, where fields began,
Saint Edward met a beggar man.
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Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
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"What do you think
The bravest drink
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August 6, 1916.-Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.)
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The bugler sent a call of high romance-
"Lights out! Lights out! to the deserted square.
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Rating: 5.00
Votes: 1 |
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This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
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Rating: 2.00
Votes: 1 |
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