The Complete Poems

by Robert Graves

  Winter would be known by his cutting snow

  If June did not borrow his armour also.

  Yet this is my country, beloved by me best,

  The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood,

  Nursing no valleys for comfort or rest,

  Trampled by no shod hooves, bought with no blood.

  Sempiternal country whose barrows have stood

  Stronghold for demigods when on earth they go,

  Terror for fat burghers on far plains below.

  ADVICE TO LOVERS

  I knew an old man at a Fair

  Who made it his twice-yearly task

  To clamber on a cider cask

  And cry to all the yokels there: –

  ‘Lovers assembled here today

  Give due attention when I say:

  Love is not kindly nor yet grim

  But does to you as you to him.

  ‘Whistle, and Love will come to you,

  Hiss, and he fades without a word,

  Do wrong, and he great wrong will do,

  Speak, he retells what he has heard.

  ‘Then all you lovers have good heed,

  Vex not young Love in word or deed:

  Love never leaves an unpaid debt,

  He will not pardon nor forget.’

  The old man’s voice was sweet yet loud

  And this shows what a man was he,

  He’d scatter apples to the crowd

  And give great draughts of cider, free.

  NEBUCHADNEZZAR’S FALL

  Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told,

  Down through the mist-hung garden, below a feeble sun,

  The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold!

  His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun.

  Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart,

  Here for his great hand searching the skies for food,

  Here for his courtship of Heaven’s high stars he shall smart,

  Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued.

  Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf-strewn mould

  Breathed sweet decay: old Earth called for her child.

  Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold,

  Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild.

  Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King,

  Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud.

  Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing

  The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood.

  He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails

  His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup.

  He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails,

  He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up.

  GIVE US RAIN

  ‘Give us Rain, Rain,’ said the bean and the pea,

  ‘Not so much Sun,

  Not so much Sun.’

  But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,

  And no rain falls and no waters run.

  ‘Give us Peace, Peace,’ said the peoples oppressed,

  ‘Not so many Flags,

  Not so many Flags.’

  But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,

  And the children starve, they shiver in rags.

  ALLIE

  Allie, call the birds in,

  The birds from the sky!

  Allie calls, Allie sings,

  Down they all fly:

  First there came

  Two white doves,

  Then a sparrow from his nest,

  Then a clucking bantam hen,

  Then a robin red-breast.

  Allie, call the beasts in,

  The beasts, every one!

  Allie calls, Allie sings,

  In they all run:

  First there came

  Two black lambs,

  Then a grunting Berkshire sow,

  Then a dog without a tail,

  Then a red and white cow.

  Allie, call the fish up,

  The fish from the stream!

  Allie calls, Allie sings,

  Up they all swim:

  First there came

  Two gold fish,

  A minnow and a miller’s thumb,

  Then a school of little trout,

  Then the twisting eels come.

  Allie, call the children,

  Call them from the green!

  Allie calls, Allie sings,

  Soon they run in:

  First there came

  Tom and Madge,

  Kate and I who’ll not forget

  How we played by the water’s edge

  Till the April sun set.

  LOVING HENRY

  Henry, Henry, do you love me?

  Do I love you, Mary?

  Oh can you mean to liken me

  To the aspen tree

  Whose leaves do shake and vary

  From white to green

  And back again,

  Shifting and contrary?

  Henry, Henry, do you love me,

  Do you love me truly?

  Oh, Mary, must I say again

  My love’s a pain,

  A torment most unruly?

  It tosses me

  Like a ship at sea

  When the storm rages fully.

  Henry, Henry, why do you love me?

  Mary, dear, have pity!

  I swear, of all the girls there are

  Both near and far,

  In country or in city,

  There’s none like you,

  So kind, so true,

  So wise, so brave, so pretty.

  BRITTLE BONES

  Though I am an old man

  With my bones very brittle,

  Though I am a poor old man

  Worth very little,

  Yet I suck at my long pipe

  At peace in the sun,

  I do not fret nor much regret

  That my work is done.

  If I were a young man

  With my bones full of marrow,

  Oh, if I were a bold young man

  Straight as an arrow,

  And if I had the same years

  To live once again,

  I would not change their simple range

  Of laughter and pain.

  If I were a young man

  And young was my Lily,

  A smart girl, a bold young man,

  Both of us silly,

  And though from time before I knew

  She’d stab me with pain,

  Though well I knew she’d not be true,

  I’d love her again.

  If I were a young man

  With a brisk, healthy body,

  Oh, if I were a bold young man

  With love of rum toddy,

  Though I knew that I was spiting

  My old age with pain,

  My happy lip would touch and sip

  Again and again.

  If I were a young man

  With my bones full of marrow,

  Oh, if I were a bold young man

  Straight as an arrow,

  I’d store up no virtue

  For Heaven’s distant plain,

  I’d live at ease as I did please

  And sin once again.

  APPLES AND WATER

  Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,

  Drums that rattle and roar!

  A mother and daughter stood together

  By their cottage door.

  ‘Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,

  The dust is shaken high,

  With labouring breath the soldiers pass,

  Their lips are cracked and dry.

  ‘Mother, I’ll throw them apples down,

  I’ll fetch them cups of water.’

  The mother turned with an angry frown,

  Holding back her daughter.

  ‘But, mother, see, they faint with thirst,

  They march away to w
ar.’

  ‘Ay, daughter, these are not the first

  And there will come yet more.

  ‘There is no water can supply them

  In western streams that flow;

  There is no fruit can satisfy them

  On orchard-trees that grow.

  ‘Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,

  A soldier apples and water;

  And may I die before you cool

  Such drouth as his, my daughter.’

  MANTICOR IN ARABIA

  (The manticors of the montaines

  Mighte feed them on thy braines. – Skelton.)

  Thick and scented daisies spread

  Where with surface dull like lead

  Arabian pools of slime invite

  Manticors down from neighbouring height

  To dip heads, to cool fiery blood

  In oozy depths of sucking mud.

  Sing then of ringstraked manticor,

  Man-visaged tiger who of yore

  Held whole Arabian waste in fee

  With raging pride from sea to sea,

  That every lesser tribe would fly

  Those armèd feet, that hooded eye;

  Till preying on himself at last

  Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed

  By gryphon flocks he did disdain.

  Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign

  In ancient keep of manticor

  Agreed old foe can rise no more.

  Only here from lakes of slime

  Drinks manticor and bides due time:

  Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree

  Must mount his pyre and burn and be

  Renewed again, till in such hour

  As seventh Phoenix flames to power

  And lifts young feathers, overnice

  From scented pool of steamy spice

  Shall manticor his sway restore

  And rule Arabian plains once more.

  OUTLAWS

  Owls – they whinny down the night;

  Bats go zigzag by.

  Ambushed in shadow beyond sight

  The outlaws lie.

  Old gods, tamed to silence, there

  In the wet woods they lurk,

  Greedy of human stuff to snare

  In nets of murk.

  Look up, else your eye will drown

  In a moving sea of black;

  Between the tree-tops, upside down,

  Goes the sky-track.

  Look up, else your feet will stray

  Into that ambuscade

  Where spider-like they trap their prey

  With webs of shade.

  For though creeds whirl away in dust,

  Faith dies and men forget,

  These agèd gods of power and lust

  Cling to life yet –

  Old gods almost dead, malign,

  Starving for unpaid dues:

  Incense and fire, salt, blood and wine

  And a drumming muse,

  Banished to woods and a sickly moon,

  Shrunk to mere bogey things,

  Who spoke with thunder once at noon

  To prostrate kings:

  With thunder from an open sky

  To warrior, virgin, priest,

  Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye

  Toward the dread East –

  Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,

  Living with ghosts and ghouls,

  And ghosts of ghosts and last year’s snow

  And dead toadstools.

  BALOO LOO FOR JENNY

  Sing baloo loo for Jenny

  And where is she gone?

  Away to spy her mother’s land,

  Riding all alone.

  To the rich towns of Scotland,

  The woods and the streams,

  High upon a Spanish horse

  Saddled for her dreams.

  By Oxford and by Chester,

  To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,

  Then once across the borderland

  She shall find no need.

  A loaf for her at Stirling,

  A scone at Carlisle,

  Honeyed cakes at Edinbro’ –

  That shall make her smile.

  At Aberdeen clear cider,

  Mead for her at Nairn,

  A cup of wine at John o’ Groat’s –

  That shall please my bairn.

  Sing baloo loo for Jenny,

  Mother will be fain

  To see her little truant child

  Riding home again.

  HAWK AND BUCKLE

  Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,

  And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?

  He’s along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,

  And ten bold companions all drinking together.

  Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,

  And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?

  She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,

  Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.

  Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,

  And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?

  He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle

  As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.

  Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,

  And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?

  He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,

  With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.

  Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,

  And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?

  She stays not contented with little or with muckle,

  Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.

  For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,

  We cling to it close and we sing all together,

  ‘Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,

  And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather.’

  THE ALICE JEAN

  One moonlit night a ship drove in,

  A ghost ship from the west,

  Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,

  Like a mermaid drest

  In long green weed and barnacles:

  She beached and came to rest.

  All the watchers of the coast

  Flocked to view the sight,

  Men and women streaming down

  Through the summer night,

  Found her standing tall and ragged

  Beached in the moonlight.

  Then one old woman looked and wept:

  ‘The Alice Jean? But no!

  The ship that took my Dick from me

  Sixty years ago

  Drifted back from the utmost west

  With the ocean’s flow?

  ‘Caught and caged in the weedy pool

  Beyond the western brink,

  Where crewless vessels lie and rot

  In waters black as ink,

  Torn out again by a sudden storm –

  Is it the Jean, you think?’

  A hundred women stared agape,

  The menfolk nudged and laughed,

  But none could find a likelier story

  For the strange craft

  With fear and death and desolation

  Rigged fore and aft.

  The blind ship came forgotten home

  To all but one of these

  Of whom none dared to climb aboard her:

  And by and by the breeze

  Sprang to a storm and the Alice Jean

  Foundered in frothy seas.

  THE CUPBOARD

  Mother: What’s in that cupboard, Mary?

  Mary: Which cupboard, mother, dear?

  Mother: The cupboard of red mahogany

  With handles shining clear.

  Mary: That cupboard, dearest mother,

  With shining crystal handles?

  There’s naught inside but rags and jags

 
And yellow tallow candles.

  Mother: What’s in that cupboard, Mary?

  Mary: Which cupboard, mother mine?

  Mother: That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,

  The silver corners shine.

  Mary: There’s nothing there inside, mother,

  But wool and thread and flax,

  And bits of faded silk and velvet,

  And candles of white wax.

  Mother: What’s in that cupboard, Mary?

  And this time tell me true.

  Mary: White clothes for an unborn baby, mother,

  But what’s the truth to you?

  THE BEACON

  The silent shepherdess,

  She of my vows,

  Here with me exchanging love

  Under dim boughs.

  Shines on our mysteries

  A sudden spark.

  ‘Dout the candle, glow-worm,

  Let all be dark.

  ‘The birds have sung their last notes,

  The Sun’s to bed.

  Glow-worm, dout your candle.’

  The glow-worm said:

  ‘I also am a lover;

  The lamp I display

  Is beacon for my true love

  Wandering astray.

  ‘Through the thick bushes

  And the grass comes he

  With a heart load of longing

  And love for me.

  ‘Sir, enjoy your fancy

  But spare me harm.

  A lover is a lover,

  Though but a worm.’

  POT AND KETTLE

  Come close to me, dear Annie, while I tie a lover’s knot,

  To tell of burning love between a kettle and a pot:

  The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,

  And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.

  Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth.

  I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth:

  For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings

  My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.

  Your moth I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,

  But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.

  There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.

  For every hour they told their hearts, ‘Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’

  As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,

  So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.

  As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you,

  And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’

  THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  ‘Come, surly fellow, come: a song!’

  What, fools? Sing to you?