All Poems

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In the Wilderness

© Robert Graves

Christ of His gentleness
Thirsting and hungering,
Walked in the wilderness;
Soft words of grace He spoke

What Is Fancy?

© Charles Lamb

SISTER.
I am to write three lines, and you
Three others that will rhyme.
There-now I've done my task.

The Frog and the Golden Ball

© Robert Graves

She let her golden ball fall down the well
And begged a cold frog to retrieve it;
For which she kissed his ugly, gaping mouth -
Indeed, he could scarce believe it.

To My Guardian Angel

© Frances Anne Kemble

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above

Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth

The Caterpillar

© Robert Graves

Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.

For These

© Edward Thomas

An acre of land between the shore and the hills,
Upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three,
The lovely visible earth and sky and sea
Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills:

1915

© Robert Graves

Ive watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,
In the fields between La Bass?e and Bethune;
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
Red poppy floods of June,

In Memoriam

© Henry Van Dyke

The record of a faith sublime,

And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned;

Jonah

© Robert Graves

A purple whale
Proudly sweeps his tail
Towards Nineveh;
Glassy green
Surges between
A mile of roaring sea.

At Set of Sun

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

If we sit down at set of sun,

And count the things that we have done,

Where once a nonsense built her nest
With skulls and flowers and all things queer,
In an old boot, with patient breast
Hatching three eggs; and the next year
S. Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid
Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did.

Lay not reproach at the drunkard's door

© Shams al-Din Hafiz

LAY not reproach at the drunkard's door
Oh Fanatic, thou that art pure of soul;
Not thine on the page of life to enrol
The faults of others! Or less or more

The Cottage

© Robert Graves

Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;

My Darling Dear, My Daisy Flower

© John Skelton

WITH lullay, lullay, like a child,

Thou sleepèst too long, thou art beguiled!

Careers

Father is quite the greatest poet
That ever lived anywhere.
You say youre going to write great music
I chose that first: its unfair.

Christmas Day

WAS it a fancy, bred of vagrant guess,

Or well-remember'd fact, that He was born

To Robert Nichols

(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: I am just finishing my Fauns Holiday. I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.)
Here by a snowbound river
In scrapen holes we shiver,
And like old bitterns we