Robert Graves

Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to rhyme, The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry, he who stoops And leaps me through his paper hoops A little higher every time. Tempts me to think I’ll grow a proper Singing cricket or grass-hopper Making prodigious jumps in air While shaken crowds about me stare Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder To fly up on my master’s shoulder Rustling the thick stands of his hair. He is older than the seas, Older than the plains and hills, And older than the light that spills From the sun’s hot wheel on these. He wakes the gale that tears your trees, He sings to you from window sills. At you he roars, or he will coo, He shouts and screams when hell is hot, Riding on the shell and shot. He smites you down, he succours you, And where you seek him, he is not. To-day I see he has two heads Like Janus—calm, benignant, this; That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads From chin to chin: this god has power Immeasurable at every hour: He first taight lovers how to kiss, He brings down sunshine after shower, Thunder and hate are his also, He is YES and he is NO. The black beard spoke and said to me, ‘Human fraility though you be, Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh! They’ll obey you in the end: Hill and field, river and marsh Shall obey you, hop and skip At the terrour of your whip, To your gales of anger bend.’ The pale beard spoke and said in turn ‘True: a prize goes to the stern, But sing and laugh and easily run Through the wide airs of my plain, Bathe in my waters, drink my sun, And draw my creatures with soft song; They shall follow you along Graciously with no doubt or pain.’ Then speaking from his double head The glorious fearful monster said ‘I am YES and I am NO, Black as pitch and white as snow, Love me, hate me, reconcile Hate with love, perfect with vile, So equal justice shall be done And life shared between moon and sun. Nature for you shall curse or smile: A poet you shall be, my son.’

“Come, surly fellow, come! A song! “What, madmen? Sing to you? Choose from the clouded tales of wrong And terror I bring to you. Of a night so torn with cries, Honest men sleeping Start awake with glaring eyes, Bone chilled, flesh creeping. Of spirits in the web-hung room Up above the stable, Groans, knocking in the gloom The dancing table. Of demons in the dry well That cheep and mutter, Clanging of an unseen bell, Blood, choking the gutter. Of lust, frightful, past belief, Lurking unforgotten, Unrestrainable, endless grief From breasts long rotten. A song? What laughter or what song Can this house remember? Do flowers and butterflies belong To a blind December?”

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love’s name, Or Beauty’s, presto! up you raise Your angry head and stand at gaze? Poor Bombard-captain, sworn to reach The ravelin and effect a breach – Indifferent what you storm or why, So be that in the breach you die! Love may be blind, but Love at least Knows what is man and what mere beast; Or Beauty wayward, but requires More delicacy from her squires. Tell me, my witless, whose one boast Could be your staunchness at the post, When were you made a man of parts To think fine and profess the arts? Will many-gifted Beauty come Bowing to your bald rule of thumb, Or Love swear loyalty to your crown? Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

‘Gabble-gabble, . . . brethren, . . . gabble-gabble!’ My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still. I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill. The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show. The parson’s voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks, I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch. ‘Prayer,’ says the kind voice, ‘is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again.’ I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there’s not the least mistake. Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there’s a plover! It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses. It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God . . . . But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.