Robert Graves
Robert Graves
Robert von Ranke Graves was an English poet, novelist, critic and classicist. During his long life he produced more than 140 works. Graves's poems—together with his translations and innovative analysis and interpretations of the Greek myths; his memoir of his early life, including his role in the First World War, Good-Bye to All That; and his speculative study of poetic inspiration, The White Goddess—have never been out of print...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth24 July 1895
CountryIreland
A remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good in spite of all the people who say he is very good.
Faults in English prose derive not so much from lack of knowledge, intelligence or art as from lack of thought, patience or goodwill.
But give thanks, at least, that you still have Frost's poems; and when you feel the need of solitude, retreat to the companionship of moon, water, hills and trees. Retreat, he reminds us, should not be confused with escape. And take these poems along for good luck!
If I were a girl, I'd despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.
There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.
What we now call ''finance'' is, I hold, an intellectual perversion of what began as warm human love.
Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they signified was that the owner had done something of no benefit to anyone more capably than everyone else.
If there's no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money.
They carry / Time looped so river-wise about their house / There's no way in by history's road / To name or number them.
War was return of earth to ugly earth, War was foundering of sublimities, Extinction of each happy art and faith By which the world had still kept head in air, Protesting logic or protesting love, Until the unendurable moment struck - The inward scre
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.
Across two counties he can hear / And catch your words before you speak. / The woodlouse or the maggot's weak / Clamour rings in his sad ear, / And noise so slight it would surpass / Credence.
You reading over my shoulder, peering beneath / My writing arm.
One smile relieves a heart that grievesthough deadly sad it be,and one hard look Can close the book that lovers love to see.