Robert Graves

(1895 - 1985 / London / England)

Robert Graves Poems

121. In Broken Images 1/3/2003
122. The Naked And The Nude 1/3/2003
123. Love Without Hope 1/3/2003
124. An Old Twenty-Third Man 1/3/2003
125. A Slice Of Wedding Cake 4/1/2010
126. When I'M Killed 1/3/2003
127. A Boy In Church 1/3/2003
128. I'D Love To Be A Fairy's Child 1/3/2003
129. A Pinch Of Salt 1/3/2003
130. An English Wood 1/3/2003
131. Careers 1/3/2003
132. Symptoms Of Love 1/3/2003
133. She Tells Her Love 1/3/2003
134. Babylon 1/3/2003
135. A Frosty Night 4/1/2010
136. 1915 1/3/2003
137. Cherry-Time 1/3/2003
138. Down, Wanton, Down! 1/3/2003
139. A Child's Nightmare 1/3/2003
140. Call It A Good Marriage 1/3/2003
141. A Dead Boche 1/3/2003

Comments about Robert Graves

  • shak spear (3/16/2018 4:29:00 AM)

    i lik shak spear cus he good very at london

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  • rosemary pitt (2/25/2018 1:28:00 AM)

    Has this been printed.?

  • anonomus (2/6/2018 3:14:00 PM)

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  • anonomus (2/6/2018 3:04:00 PM)


  • peter gisla (1/24/2018 1:22:00 PM)

    I am trying to locate a poem by Robert Graves entitled Real search of meaning in a complex society. Please respond if you would to Thank You....Peter

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

    Chander pur bawliya.

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,...

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