Robert Graves Quotes

But, after all, what is a scholar? One who may not break bounds under pain of expulsion from the academy of which he is a member.

Be warm, enjoy the season, lift your head, Exquisite in the pulse of tainted blood, That shivering glory not to be despised. Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark — a shining space With the grave’s narrowness, though not its peace.

To jest dzika ziemia, kraj, który sam wybrałem,
W nim szorstka, skalna góra, wielkie wrzosowisko.
Rzadko na pustych polach tych głos jakiś słychać,
Chyba głos zimnej wody, co gdzieniegdzie płynie
Przez skały i wrzos wiotki rosnący w pustkowiu.
Mysz tędy przebiegnie ni ptak nie przeleci,
Bojąc się myszołowa, co po niebie płynie.

Szybuje tam i krąży, kołysząc skrzydłami,
Królestwo swe szerokie bystrym mierzy okiem,
Łowi drżenie niewielkich ukrytych żyjątek,
Rozdziera na kawałki i zrzuca je z nieba;
Tkliwości i litości serce nie dopuszcza,
Tam gdzie woda i skała tylko są pokarmem -
Życie niełatwe, strachu jest pełne i wstrząsów.

Czas nigdy nie wędrował do tego odludzia,
Wrzos i czarne bażyny kwitną po terminie,
Skały sterczą, strumyki spływają śpiewając,
O to, czy pora wczesna, czy późna, nie dbają;
Niebo płynie nad głową, błękitne lub szare;
Zimę poznałbyś po tym, że śniegiem zacina,
Gdyby nie to, że czerwiec jej zbroi się ima.

Jednak to moja ziemia, najbardziej ją kocham,
Pierwszy kraj, jaki powstał z Potopu, Chaosu;
Nie ma w nim żadnych dolin miłych dla popasu,
Nie ma podkutych koni, krwią nie był kupiony.
Kraj odwieczny - pagórki są w nim fortecami
Dla półbogów, gdy kroczą po ziemi, strach siejąc
Wśród tłumu tłustych mieszczan w odległych dolinach.

A perfect poem is impossible. Once it had been written, the world would end.

In love as in sport, the amateur status must be strictly maintained.

Poetry is a means of storing power: notably the magical power of love.

...but [I] had sworn on the very day of my demobilization never to be under anyone’s orders for the rest of my life. Somehow I must live by writing.

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."

So when I'm killed, don't wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don't wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You'll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you've read.

Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up.

The king deputized for the Queen at many sacred functions, dressed in her robes, wore false breasts, borrowed her lunar axe as a symbol of power, and even took over from her the magical art of rain-making. His ritual death varied greatly in circumstance; he might be torn in pieces by wild women, transfixed with a sting-ray spear, felled with an axe, pricked in the heel with a poisoned arrow, flung over a cliff, burned to death on a pyre, drowned in a pool, or killed in a pre-arranged chariot crash. But die he must.

I have myself eaten the hallucinogenic mushroom, psilocybe, a divine ambrosia in immemorial use among the Masatec Indians of Oaxaca Province, Mexico; hear the priestess invoke Tlaloc, the Mushroom-god, and seen transcendental visions. Thus I wholeheartedly agree with R. Gordon Wasson, the American discoverer of this ancient rite, that European ideas of heaven and hell may well have derived from similar mysteries.

Nobody is familiar with his own profile, and it comes as a shock, when one sees it in a portrait, that one really looks like that to people standing beside one. For one's full face, because of the familiarity that mirrors give it, a certain toleration and even affection is felt; but I must say that when I first saw the model of the gold piece that the mint-masters were striking for me I grew angry and asked whether it was intended to be a caricature. My little head with its worried face perched on my long neck, and the Adam's apple standing out almost like a second chin, shocked me. But Messalina said: "No, my dear, that's really what you look like. In fact, it is rather flattering than otherwise."

Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses There is one story and one story only.

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!