The Project Gutenberg eBook of Whipperginny
Title: Whipperginny
Author: Robert Graves
Release date: January 7, 2019 [eBook #58642]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, 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/Canadian Libraries)
WHIPPERGINNY
WHIPPERGINNY
BY
ROBERT GRAVES
NEW YORK
ALFRED A. KNOPF : MCMXXIII
TO
EDWARD MARSH
Printed in Great Britain
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The poems in this volume cover a period of three years, beginning at the New Year of 1920, except for the rhymes “Henry and Mary,” “What did I dream?” and “Mirror, Mirror!” with parts of “An English Wood,” “The Bed Post” and of “Unicorn and the White Doe,” which are bankrupt stock of 1918, the year in which I was writing Country Sentiment. The Pier Glass, a volume which followed Country Sentiment, similarly contains a few pieces continuing the mood of this year, the desire to escape from a painful war neurosis into an Arcadia of amatory fancy, but the prevailing mood of The Pier Glass is aggressive and disciplinary, under the stress of the same neurosis, rather than escapist. Whipperginny for a while continues so, but in most of the later pieces will be found evidences of greater detachment in the poet and the appearance of a new series of problems in religion, psychology and philosophy, no less exacting than their predecessors, but, it may be said, of less emotional intensity. The “Interlude” in the middle of the book was written before the appearance of these less lyrical pieces, but must be read as an apology for the book being now even less homogeneous than before. To those who demand unceasing emotional stress in poetry at whatever cost to the poet—I was one of these myself until recently—I have no apology to offer; but only this proverb from the Chinese, that the petulant protests of all the lords and ladies of the Imperial Court will weigh little with the whale when, recovering from his painful excretory condition, he need no longer supply the Guild of Honourable Perfumers with their accustomed weight of ambergris.
ROBERT GRAVES.
CONTENTS
WHIPPERGINNY
(“A card game, obsolete.”—Standard Dictionary.)
When Time with cruelty runs,
To courtly Bridge for stress of love,
To Nap for noise of guns.
No present problems vex
Where man’s four humours fade to suits,
With red and black for sex.
By tricks instead of cash,
Where pasteboard federacies of Powers
In battles-royal clash.
That hangs above this page
As type of mirth-abstracted joy,
Calm terror, noiseless rage,
Obscured by veils of Time,
Cipher remote enough to stand
As namesake for my rhyme,
THE BEDPOST
Sees the post and ball
Of her sister’s wooden bedstead
Shadowed on the wall.
With uncovered head
Tells her stories of old battle,
As she lies in bed.
Fighting knee to knee,
Broke their swords but whirled their scabbards
Till they gained the sea.
Foully broke his oath,
Gave them beds in his sea cavern,
Then stabbed them both.
Diving boldly through,
Caught and killed their father’s murderer,
Old Cro-bar-cru.
Fought the giant Gog,
Threw him into Stony Cataract
In the land of Og.
Though they went by others;
He could tell ten thousand stories
Of these lusty brothers.
Fell in love with Will,
And went with him to the Court of Venus
Over Hoo Hill;
Whom she hated most,
Stole away his arms and helmet,
Turned him to a post.
For yet many years,
Until a maiden shall release him
With a fall of tears.
A LOVER SINCE CHILDHOOD
Stumble in speech do I?
Do I blunder and blush for the reason why?
Wander aloof do I,
Lean over gates and sigh,
Making friends with the bee and the butterfly?
Dazed by the thought of you,
Walking my sorrowful way in the early dew,
My heart cut through and through
In this despair for you,
Starved for a word or a look will my hope renew;
SONG OF CONTRARIETY
Close joined is far away,
Love might come at your command
Yet will not stay.
She could not disobey,
But slid close down beside you there
And complaisant lay.
In waking hours of day,
Joy and passion both are spent,
Fading clean away.
THE RIDGE-TOP
And we heard the lost curlew
Mourning out of sight below;
Mountain tops were touched with snow;
Even the long dividing plain
Showed no wealth of sheep or grain,
But fields of boulders lay like corn
And raven’s croak was shepherd’s horn
To slow cloud shadow strayed across
A pasture of thin heath and moss.
The North Wind rose; I saw him press
With lusty force against your dress,
Moulding your body’s inward grace,
And streaming off from your set face;
So now no longer flesh and blood,
But poised in marble thought you stood,
O wingless Victory, loved of men,
Who could withstand your triumph then?
SONG IN WINTER
UNICORN AND THE WHITE DOE
Through forests evergreen,
By legend known,
By no eye seen,
Unmated,
Unbaited,
Untrembling between
The shifting shadows,
The sudden echoes,
Deathless I go
Unheard, unseen,”
Says the White Doe.
Breath of love hath drawn
On his desolate crags apart
At rumour of dawn;
Twenty thousand years mute,
Tossed his horn from side to side,
Lunged with his foot.
Breaking the desert’s boundaries,
I go in hiding from the sun
In thick shade of trees.
Across the plains, but here with briar
And mire the tangled alleys crook,
Baulking desire.
(A bough still shakes.)
What was it darted from my sight
Through the forest brakes?
I pursue, you fade;
I run, you hide from me
In the dark glade.
The grass grows thick.
Where you are I do not know,
You fly so quick.”
Lodged among mortal deer,”
Says the White Doe;
“Keeping one place
Held by the ties of Space,”
Says the White Doe.
“I
Equally
In air
Above your bare
Hill crest, your basalt lair,
Mirage-reflected drink
At the clear pool’s brink;
With tigers at play
In the glare of day
Blithely I stray;
Under shadow of myrtle
With Phœnix and his Turtle
For all time true;
With Gryphons at grass
Under the Upas,
Sipping warm dew
That falls hourly new;
I, unattainable
Complete, incomprehensible,
No mate for you.
In sun’s beam
Or star-gleam,
No mate for you,
No mate for you,”
Says the White Doe.
SULLEN MOODS
Though I turn sullen, grim, retired
Even at your side; my thought is crossed
With fancies by old longings fired.
Vaguely and wildly, do not fear
That my love walks forbidden ways,
Breaking the ties that hold it here.
Mere indignation at my own
Shortcomings, plagues, uncertainties;
I forget the gentler tone.
My one beginning, prime and end,
I count at last as wholly me,
Lover no longer nor yet friend.
Must I then flatter my own mind?
And must (which laws of shame forbid)
Blind love of you make self-love blind?
The sharp rebuke, the frown, the groan;
Remind me, rather, to disjoin
Your emanation from my own.
When overwhelmed and dead, almost,
I stumbled on that secret door
Which saves the live man from the ghost.
A FALSE REPORT
That each his fellow urges
“Samson the proud is pillow-smothered,”
They raise mock dirges?
Turn, look with amaze
At my foxes running in your cornfields
With their tails ablaze,
CHILDREN OF DARKNESS
(“In their generation wiser than the children of Light.”)
Though doubtfully they shrank from this—
Day had no courage to review
What lusty dark alone might do—
Then were we joined from their caress
In heat of midnight, one from two.
In certitude his changings went;
Though there were veils about his face,
With forethought, even in that pent place,
Down towards the light his way he bent
To kingdoms of more ample space.
RICHARD ROE AND JOHN DOE
Made cuckold, you should know, by one John Doe;
Solomon’s neck was firm enough to bear
Some score of antlers more than Roe could wear.
Being robbed of house and land by the same hand;
Ten thousand acres or a principal town
Would have cost Alexander scarce a frown.
Sunk past reclaim in stinking rags and shame;
Job’s plight was utterly bad, his own even worse,
He found no God to call on or to curse.
THE DIALECTICIANS
Direction a bend,
Space its inhibitions,
Time a dead end.
O then, call it black:
Farthest from the truth
Is yet half-way back.
Head swallowing its tail;
Does whale engulf sprat,
Or sprat assume whale?
THE LANDS OF WHIPPERGINNY
(“Heaven or Hell or the Lands of Whipperginny.”—Nashe’s Jack
Wilton.)
With a low sun gilding the bloom of the wood.
Be this Heaven, be it Hell, or the Lands of Whipperginny,
It lies in a fairy lustre, it savours most good.
“THE GENERAL ELLIOTT”
Holed through and through with shot,
A sabre sweep had hacked him deep
’Twixt neck and shoulder-knot....
The ostler never knew,
Whether his day was Malplaquet,
The Boyne, or Waterloo.
With foolish bold regard
For cock and hen and loitering men
And wagons down the yard.
He smokes his painted pipe,
And now surveys the orchard ways,
The damsons clustering ripe.
Where country neighbours lie,
Their brief renown set lowly down;
His name assaults the sky.
That spills a generous foam:
Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks
At drunk men lurching home.
That honoured swinging seat;
His seasons pass with pipe and glass
Until the tale’s complete.
A FIGHT TO THE DEATH
OLD WIVES’ TALES
Random tags for a child’s ear?
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons blowing flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
And find them bound by natural laws,
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are the deadlier for that cause.
Teeth saw-edged nor rattling scales,
No fire issues from their lungs,
Poison has not slimed their tails.
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man’s despair
In mid whirl of mental storms.
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
The dragon’s death with shield and sword,
Or love abjure the mermaid grot,
Or faith be fixed in one blest word.