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Robert Graves Biography

Robert von Ranke Graves (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985), also known as Robert Ranke Graves and most commonly Robert Graves, was an English poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a celebrated Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival; they were both Celticists and students of Irish mythology. Graves 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 World War I, Good-Bye to All That; and his speculative study of poetic inspiration, The White Goddess—have never been out of print.

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Robert Graves Quotes

Genius not only diagnoses the situation but supplies the answers.

Answers, Diagnosis, Genius, Supplies

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the poets, who try to to keep civilization alive.

Civilization, Independent, Long, Scholars, Specialized

Hardly one soldier in a hundred was inspired by religious feeling of even the crudest kind. It would have been difficult to remain religious in the trenches even if one had survived the irreligion of the training battalion at home.

Battalion, Feelings, Home, Hundred, Kind, Religious

I have done many impious things--no great ruler can do otherwise. I have put the good of the Empire before all human considerations. To keep the Empire free from factions I have had to commit many crimes.

Commit, Crime, Crimes, Done, Empires

Any honest housewife would sort them out,
Having a nose for fish, an eye for apples.

Apples, Eye, Housewife, Nose, Noses

Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself and turn away. Mask your hunger, let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

Close, Dream, Hands, Hold, Laughing, Mask

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.

Found, Poem, Same, Should, Thought, Unexpected

Well, we've been lucky devils both And there is no need for a pledge or oath To bind our lovely friendship fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough.

Devil, Enough, Firmer, Friendship, Lovely, Lucky

The gas-cylinders had by this time been put into position on the front line. A special order came round imposing severe penalties on anyone who used any word but "accessory" in speaking of the gas. This was to keep it secret, but the French civilians knew all about the scheme long before this.

Accessory, Civilians, Long, Order, Used, War

There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.

Good Writing, Rewriting, Thing, Writing

Poetry is no more a narcotic than a stimulant; it is a universal bittersweet mixture for all possible household emergencies and its action varies accordingly as it is taken in a wineglass or a tablespoon, inhaled, gargled or rubbed on the chest by hard fingers covered with rings.

Emergencies, Mixture, Mixtures, Narcotic, Possible, Taken

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.

Grieves, Grieving, Heart, Relieves, Smile

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.

Cutting, Fit, Prisoners, Trenches

New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots Pull or stab or cut or burn, Love must ever yet return.

Burn, Cutting, New Beginnings, Return, Roots, Spring

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.

Clutch, Dream, Hurt, Lovely, Pain, Prize

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.

Betrayal, Bright, Mother, Shout, Song

There is one story and one story only.

Crafts, Stories, Story

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!

Confused, Escape, Good Luck, Moon, Water

Originally marriage meant the sale of a woman by one man to another; now most women sell themselves though they have no intention of delivering the goods listed in the bill of sale.

Bills, Intention, Marriage, Men, Woman, Women

The function of poetry is religious invocation of the muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites.

Exaltation, Experience, Function, Presence, Religious

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