Robert Graves Poems

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
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Father is quite the greatest poet
    That ever lived anywhere.
You say you’re going to write great music—
    I chose that first: it’s unfair.
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Allie, call the birds in,
The birds from the sky.
Allie calls, Allie sings,
Down they all fly.
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Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.
...

Children born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food or fire,
Always get their hearts desire:
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This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,
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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 stain,
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He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
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“Gabble-gabble,… brethren,… gabble-gabble!”
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
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“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,
...