Robert Graves

(1895 - 1985 / London / England)

Robert Graves Poems

41. The 4/1/2010
42. It's A Queer Time 4/1/2010
43. Tom Taylor 4/1/2010
44. Country At War 4/1/2010
45. Pot And Kettle 4/1/2010
46. Recalling War 4/1/2010
47. Full Moon 4/1/2010
48. Faun 1/3/2003
49. I Wonder What It Feels Like To Be Drowned? 1/3/2003
50. The Lady Visitor In The Pauper Ward 1/3/2003
51. True Johnny 4/1/2010
52. The Dead Fox Hunter 4/1/2010
53. The Snapped Thread 1/3/2003
54. Cherry-Time 4/1/2010
55. The Bough Of Nonsense 1/3/2003
56. Vain And Careless 4/1/2010
57. Hate Not - Fear Not 4/1/2010
58. Thunder At Night 4/1/2010
59. John Skelton 1/3/2003
60. Jonah 1/3/2003
61. Knowledge Of God 4/1/2010
62. The Troll's Nosegay 1/3/2003
63. The Poet In The Nursery 1/3/2003
64. Mr. Philosopher 1/3/2003
65. Sorley’s Weather 1/3/2003
66. The Leveller 4/1/2010
67. Smoke-Rings 1/3/2003
68. The Travellers' Curse After Misdirection 1/3/2003
69. Brittle Bones 4/1/2010
70. 1805 4/1/2010
71. The Frog And The Golden Ball 1/3/2003
72. The Caterpillar 1/3/2003
73. The Last Post 1/3/2003
74. Strong Beer 1/3/2003
75. Not To Sleep 1/3/2003
76. The White Goddess 4/1/2010
77. Marigolds 1/3/2003
78. Not Dead 1/3/2003
79. A Rhyme Of Friends 4/1/2010
80. The Thieves 1/3/2003

Comments about Robert Graves

  • Kuldeep Kumar Singh (12/2/2017 8:05:00 PM)

    Chander pur bawliya.

    4 person liked.
    10 person did not like.
Best Poem of Robert Graves

A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I'll say (you've heard it said before)
"War's Hell! " and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

Read the full of A Dead Boche

The Poet In The Nursery

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
In a dim library, just behind the chair
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling
A song about some Lovers at a Fair,
Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
That rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking
About the tragic poem I’d been writing,...

[Report Error]