TWO SONNETS I Saints have adored the lofty soul of you. But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there. I think it like that signpost in my land Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know. II Such, such is death: no triumph: no defeat: A A merciful putting away of what has been. And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, You only saw your future bigly planned, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again Robert Graves Robert Graves was born in England of mixed Irish, Scottish and German stock, July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Nichols), he was one of the several writers who, roused by the war and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant new hymns of hate. Like Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm of fury and blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but, fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is violent, Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter Graves is almost blithe. An unconquerable gayety rises from his Fairies and Fusiliers (1917), a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. In Country Sentiment (1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity. A buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes. IT'S A QUEER TIME It's hard to know if you're alive or dead One moment you'll be crouching at your gun You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!" Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out- Hanky to nose-that lyddite makes a stench- The trouble is, things happen much too quick; To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well today . . It's a queer time. NEGLECTFUL EDWARD Nancy Edward, back from the Indian Sea, Edward "A rope of pearls and a gold earring, Nancy "God be praised you are back," says she, Edward "Long as I sailed the Indian Sea And a bird of the East that will not sing: What more can you want, dear girl, from me?" Nancy "God be praised you are back," said she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" Edward "Safe and home from the Indian Sea, And nothing to take your fancy?" Nancy "You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, And your bird of the East that will not sing, But, Ned, have you nothing more for me. Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED? Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas! Are boats and barges anchored to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands... I wonder what it feels like to be drowned? I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound. The seas run high and the boats split asunder I wonder what it feels like to be drowned? |