The Project Gutenberg EBook of Over the Brazier, by Robert Graves This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Over the Brazier Author: Robert Graves Release Date: October 18, 2014 [EBook #47144] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE BRAZIER *** Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) OVER THE BRAZIER BY ROBERT GRAVES LONDON -- THE POETRY BOOKSHOP, 35 DEVONSHIRE ST., THEOBALDS RD. W.C.1 _Poetry by the Same Author_ FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS (William Heinemann 1917) COUNTRY SENTIMENT (Martin Secker: 1920) First Printed 1916 Second Impression 1917 Reprinted 1920 FOREWORD TO NEW EDITION When these poems, written between the ages of fourteen and twenty, first appeared, I was serving in France and had no leisure for getting the final proofs altogether as I wanted them. The same year, but too late, I decided on several alterations in the text, including the suppression of two small poems inexcusable even as early work. These amendations appear in this new edition, but I have left the bulk of the book as it stood. +Robert Graves.+ Harlech, North Wales. THE POET IN THE NURSERY The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there. And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I'd been writing-- An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; And how at last, into a fever sinking, Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. But suddenly I saw the bright green cover Of a thin pretty book right down below; I snatched it up and turned the pages over, To find it full of poetry, and so Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover And turned to watch if the old man saw it go. The book was full of funny muddling mazes Each rounded off into a lovely song, And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong, And metre twisting like a chain of daisies With great big splendid words a sentence long. I took the book to bed with me and gloated, Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand, So soon the pretty emerald green was coated With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, While round the nursery for long months there floated Wonderful words no one could understand. PART I.--Poems Mostly Written at Charterhouse--1910-1914 STAR-TALK "Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?" "We'll be awake till reveillé, Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, "It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But sleep is gone to to-night, But sleep is gone for to-night." "Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night." "What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, And the Great Bear," says Orion, "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night." "Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare Of my own big fur," says the She-bear, "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!" "How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night." THE DYING KNIGHT AND THE FAUNS Through the dreams of yesternight My blood brother great in fight I saw lying, slowly dying Where the weary woods were sighing With the rustle of the birches, With the quiver of the larches.... Woodland fauns with hairy haunches Grin in wonder through the branches Woodland fauns that know no fear. Wondering, they wander near Munching mushrooms red as coral, Bunches, too, of rue and sorrel; Wonder at his radiant fairness, At his dinted, shattered harness, With uncouth and bestial sounds, Knowing nought of war or wounds: But the crimson life-blood oozes And make roses of the daisies, Persian carpets of the mosses-- Softly now his spirit passes As the bee forsakes the lily, As the berry leaves the holly; But the fauns still think him living, And with bay leaves they are weaving Crowns to deck him. Well they may! He was worthy of the Bay. WILLAREE On the rough mountain wind That blows so free Rides a little storm-sprite Whose name is Willaree. The fleecy cloudlets are not his, No shepherd is he, For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds Over land and sea. His home is on the mountain-top Where I love to be, Amid grey rocks and brambles And the red rowan-tree. He whistles down the chimney, He whistles to me, And I send greeting back to him Whistling cheerily. The great elms are battling, Waves are on the sea, Loud roars the mountain-wind-- God rest you, Willaree! THE FACE OF THE HEAVENS Little winds in a hurry, Great winds over the sky, Clouds sleek or furry, Storms that rage and die, The whole cycle of weather From calm to hurricane Of four gales wroth together, Thunder, lightning, rain, The burning sun, snowing, Hailstones pattering down, Blue skies and red skies showing, Skies with a black frown, By these signs and wonders You may tell God's mood: He shines, rains, thunders, But all His works are good. JOLLY YELLOW MOON Oh, now has faded from the West A sunset red as wine, And beast and bird are hushed to rest When the jolly yellow moon doth shine. Come comrades, roam we round the mead Where couch the sleeping kine; The breath of night blows soft indeed, And the jolly yellow moon doth shine. And step we slowly, friend with friend, Let arm with arm entwine. And voice with voice together blend, For the jolly yellow moon doth shine. Whether we loudly sing or soft, The tune goes wondrous fine; Our chorus sure will float aloft Where the jolly yellow moon doth shine. YOUTH AND FOLLY ("_Life is a very awful thing! You young fellows are too busy being jolly to realize the folly of your lives._" --_A Charterhouse Sermon_) In Chapel often when I bawl The hymns, to show I'm musical, With bright eye and cheery voice Bidding Christian folk rejoice, Shame be it said, I've not a thought Of the One Being whom I ought To worship: with unwitting roar Other godheads I adore. I celebrate the Gods of Mirth And Love and Youth and Springing Earth, Bacchus, beautiful, divine, Gulping down his heady wine, Dear Pan piping in his hollow, Fiery-headed King Apollo And rugged Atlas all aloof Holding up the purple roof. I have often felt and sung, "It's a good thing to be young: Though the preacher says it's folly, Is it foolish to be jolly?" I have often prayed in fear, "Let me never grow austere; Let me never think, I pray, Too much about Judgment Day; Never, never feel in Spring, 'Life's a very awful thing!'" Then I realize and start And curse my arrogant young heart, Bind it over to confess Its horrible ungodliness, Set myself penances, and sigh That I was born in sin, and try To find the whole world vanity. GHOST MUSIC Gloomy and bare the organ-loft, Bent-backed and blind the organist. From rafters looming shadowy, From the pipes' tuneful company, Drifted together drowsily, Innumerable, formless, dim, The ghosts of long-dead melodies, Of anthems, stately, thunderous, Of Kyries shrill and tremulous: In melancholy drowsy-sweet They huddled there in harmony, Like bats at noontide rafter-hung. FREE VERSE I now delight, In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition, In writing And reciting Straight ahead, Without let or omission, Just any little rhyme In any little time That runs in my head: Because, I've said, My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed Like Prussian soldiers on parade That march, Stiff as starch, Foot to foot, Boot to boot, Blade to blade, Button to button, Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. No! No! My rhymes must go Turn 'ee, twist 'ee, Twinkling, frosty, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty, Rhymes I will make Like Keats and Blake And Christina Rossetti, With run and ripple and shake. How petty To take A merry little rhyme In a jolly little time And poke it, And choke it, Change it, arrange it, Straight-lace it, deface it, Pleat it with pleats, Sheet it with sheets Of empty conceits, And chop and chew, And hack and hew, And weld it into a uniform stanza, And evolve a neat, Complacent, complete, Academic extravaganza! IN THE WILDERNESS Christ of his gentleness Thirsting and hungering Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly. He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety. Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to His homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbéd stings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries. And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scape-goat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept. OH, AND OH! Oh, and oh! The world's a muddle, The clouds are untidy, Moon lopsidey, Shining in a puddle. Down dirty streets in stench and smoke The pale townsfolk Crawl and kiss and cuddle, In doorways hug and huddle; Loutish he And sluttish she In loathsome love together press And unbelievable ugliness. These spiders spin a loathly woof! I walk aloof, Head burning and heart snarling, Tread feverish quick; My love is sick; Far away lives my darling. CHERRY-TIME Cherries of the night are riper Than the cherries pluckt at noon: Gather to your fairy piper When he pipes his magic tune: Merry, merry, Take a cherry, Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater Under the moon. And you'll be fairies soon. In the cherry pluckt at night, With the dew of summer swelling, There's a juice of pure delight, Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. Merry, merry, Take a cherry, Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater In the moonlight. And you'll be fairies quite. When I sound the fairy call, Gather here in silent meeting, Chin to knee on the orchard wall, Cooled with dew and cherries eating. Merry, merry, Take a cherry, Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater When the dews fall. And you'll be fairies all. PART II.--Poems Written Before La Bassée--1915 THE SHADOW OF DEATH Here's an end to my art! I must die and I know it, With battle murder at my heart-- Sad death for a poet! Oh my songs never sung, And my plays to darkness blown! I am still so young, so young, And life was my own. Some bad fairy stole The baby I nursed: Was this my pretty little soul, This changeling accursed? To fight and kill is wrong-- To stay at home wronger: Oh soul, little play and song, I may father no longer! Here's an end to my art! I must die and I know it, With battle murder at my heart-- Sad death for a poet! THE MORNING BEFORE THE BATTLE To-day, the fight: my end is very soon, And sealed the warrant limiting my hours: I knew it walking yesterday at noon Down a deserted garden full of flowers. ... Carelessly sang, pinned roses on my breast, Reached for a cherry-bunch--and then, then, Death Blew through the garden from the North and East And blighted every beauty with chill breath. I looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood, His head all battered in by violent blows: The fruit between my lips to clotted blood Was transubstantiate, and the pale rose Smelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-flood That dead men blossomed in the garden-close. LIMBO After a week spent under raining skies, In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek Of death offends the living ... but poor dead Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound That roars and whirs and rattles overhead All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground; When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare, And then one night relief comes, and we go Miles back into the sunny cornland where Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses. THE TRENCHES (_Heard in the Ranks_) Scratches in the dirt? No, that sounds much too nice. Oh, far too nice. Seams, rather, of a Greyback Shirt, And we're the little lice Wriggling about in them a week or two, Till one day, suddenly, from the blue Something bloody and big will come Like--watch this fingernail and thumb!-- Squash! and he needs no twice. (+Nursery Memories+) I.--THE FIRST FUNERAL (_The first corpse I saw was on the German wires, and couldn't be buried_) The whole field was so smelly; We smelt the poor dog first: His horrid swollen belly Looked just like going burst. His fur was most untidy; He hadn't any eyes. It happened on Good Friday And there was lots of flies. And then I felt the coldest I'd ever felt, and sick, But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest, Dared poke him with her stick. He felt quite soft and horrid: The flies buzzed round his head And settled on his forehead: Rose whispered: "That dog's dead. "You bury all dead people, When they're quite really dead, Round churches with a steeple: Let's bury this," Rose said. "And let's put mint all round it To hide the nasty smell." I went to look and found it-- Lots, growing near the well. We poked him through the clover Into a hole, and then We threw brown earth right over And said: "Poor dog, Amen!" (+Nursery Memories+) II.--THE ADVENTURE (_Suggested by the claim of a machine-gun team to have annihilated an enemy wire party: no bodies were found however_) To-day I killed a tiger near my shack Among the trees: at least, it must have been, Because his hide was yellow, striped with black, And his eyes were green. I crept up close and slung a pointed stone With all my might: I must have hit his head, For there he died without a twitch or groan, And he lay there dead. I expect that he'd escaped from a Wild Beast Show By pulling down his cage with an angry tear; He'd killed and wounded all the people--so He was hiding there. I brought my brother up as quick's I could But there was nothing left when he did come: The tiger's mate was watching in the wood And she'd dragged him home. But, anyhow, I killed him by the shack, 'Cause--listen!--when we hunted in the wood My brother found my pointed stone all black With the clotted blood. (+Nursery Memories+) III.--I HATE THE MOON (_After a moonlight patrol near the Brickstacks_) I hate the Moon, though it makes most people glad, And they giggle and talk of silvery beams--you know! But _she_ says the look of the Moon drives people mad, And that's the thing that always frightens me so. I hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright, And you can't make out the marks on its stupid face, Except when you shut your eyelashes, and all night The sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place. I like the stars, and especially the Big Bear And the W star, and one like a diamond ring, But I _hate_ the Moon and its horrible stony stare, And I know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing. BIG WORDS "I've whined of coming death, but now, no more! It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I, Though still a boy if years are counted, why! I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor, And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore, Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die: And I'm satisfied. For winning confidence in those quiet days Of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side Of Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in war Finding it firmlier with me than before; Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's ways That once I lost, finding it justified Even in this chaos; winning love that stays And warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide; Having earlier tried False loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praise Brims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow, Confess no sins and make no weak delays If death ends all and I must die to-morrow." But on the firestep, waiting to attack, He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back. THE DEAD FOX HUNTER We found the little captain at the head; His men lay well aligned. We touched his hand--stone-cold--and he was dead, And they, all dead behind, Had never reached their goal, but they died well; They charged in line, and in the same line fell. The well-known rosy colours of his face Were almost lost in grey. We saw that, dying and in hopeless case, For others' sake that day He'd smothered all rebellious groans: in death His fingers were tight clenched between his teeth. For those who live uprightly and die true Heaven has no bars or locks, And serves all taste.... Or what's for him to do Up there, but hunt the fox? Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provide For one who rode straight and at hunting died. So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came, Why, it must find one now: If any shirk and doubt they know the game, There's one to teach them how: And the whole host of Seraphim complete Must jog in scarlet to his opening Meet. IT'S A QUEER TIME It's hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head. One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast No time to think--leave all--and off you go ... To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow, To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime-- Breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the Red West! It's a queer time. You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!" When somehow something gives and your feet drag. You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! You're back in the old sailor suit again. It's a queer time. Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out-- A great roar--the trench shakes and falls about-- You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo! Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench-- Getting her pinafore all over grime. Funny! because she died ten years ago! It's a queer time. The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: Even good Christians don't like passing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ... It's a queer time. 1915 I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, And you've been everything, Dear, you've been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches--pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that's good. OVER THE BRAZIER What life to lead and where to go After the War, after the War? We'd often talked this way before But I still see the brazier glow That April night, still feel the smoke And stifling pungency of burning coke. I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills, North Wales, a cottage full of books, Pictures and brass and cosy nooks And comfortable broad window-sills, Flowers in the garden, walls all white, I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write." But Willy said "No, Home's no good Old England's quite a hopeless place I've lost all feeling for my race: But France has given me heart and blood Enough to last me all my life I'm off to Canada with my wee wife. "Come with us, Mac, old thing," but Mac Drawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me, A warm green jewel in the South Sea. There's merit in a lumber shack And labour is a grand thing ... but Give me my hot beach and my cocoanut." So then we built and stocked for Willy A log-hut, and for Mac a calm Rockabye cradle on a palm-- Idyllic dwellings--but this silly Mad War has now wrecked both, and what Better hopes has my little cottage got? July, 1915. * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and small capitals by =plus signs=. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Over the Brazier, by Robert Graves *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE BRAZIER *** ***** This file should be named 47144-8.txt or 47144-8.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/1/4/47144/ Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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