قراءة كتاب Over the Brazier
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اللغة: English
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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