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,