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This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.

Robert Graves

One gets to the heart of the matter by a series of experiences in the same pattern, but in different colors.
ROBERT GRAVES

Color Experience Heart Oneself Pattern
When I’m killed, don’t think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me With the Intolerable Good. And there’s one thing that I know well, I’m damned if I’ll be damned to Hell!
ROBERT GRAVES

Goodness Hell Kill Myself Thinking Tolerance
The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
ROBERT GRAVES

Affection Betrayal Child Children Family Feeling God Husband Mother Motherhood Sacrifice Song Soul
No poem is worth anything unless it starts from a poetic trance, out of which you can be wakened by interruption as from a dream. In fact, it is the same thing.
ROBERT GRAVES

Beautiful Dream Effect Fact Impressive Noble Poet Poetic Poetry Result Saying Simplicity Widely
Profession, Condition, Poet, Wide, Beautiful, Impressive, Poetry, Effect, Saying, Result, Impress
ROBERT GRAVES

Beautiful Break Condition Effect English Grammar Impressive Poet Poetry Profession Result Saying Wide
Patriotism, in the trenches, was too remote a sentiment, and at once rejected as fit only for civilians, or prisoners. A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut it out.
ROBERT GRAVES

Civilian Cutting Fit Freedom Help Hope Inspire Patriotism Reject Story Trencher
Any honest housewife would sort them out, Having a nose for fish, an eye for apples.
ROBERT GRAVES
She told me that all the girls in Annezin prayed every night for the war to end and for the English to go away as soon as their money was spent. She said that the clause about the money was always repeated in case God should miss it.
ROBERT GRAVES

Action Blow Bow Champion Discuss Girl Night Reward Tide War Wind Won
As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever.
ROBERT GRAVES

Love Mercy Myself Woman
So when I’m killed, don’t wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don’t wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You’ll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you’ve read.
ROBERT GRAVES

Fall Heaven Hell Journey Life Luck One Liner Proud Spark Waiting
The gift of independence once granted cannot be lightly taken away again.
ROBERT GRAVES

Always Freedom Gem God Granted Heart Independence Pure Soul Taken True
The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.
ROBERT GRAVES

Art Beautiful Butterfly Effect Impress Impressive Refuge Result Saying Stills Truth White Widely
If I thought that any poem of mine could have been written by anyone else, either a contemporary or a forerunner, I should suppress it with a blush; and I should do the same if I ever found I were imitating myself. Every poem should be new, unexpected, inimitable, and incapable of being parodied.
ROBERT GRAVES

Blow Champion Hobby Idea Reading Reward Talk Unexpected Wind Won Writing
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, O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch You’ll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
ROBERT GRAVES

Born Care Delicate Dream Flaw Prize Sudden Yourself
The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.
ROBERT GRAVES
Any honest housewife would sort them out,/ Having a nose for fish, an eye for apples.
ROBERT GRAVES

Apple Body Calm Eye Fish Health Housewife Nature Nose Positive Respect Self Esteem Wealth

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.

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This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.

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Popular Authors

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