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Robert Graves

Poetry analysis of Warning to Children and On Portents
by

Hanna Stewart

on 20 April 2010

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Transcript of Robert Graves

Double click anywhere & add an idea Robert Graves
-Warning to Children
-On portents Born: July 24th 1895
Died: December 7th 1985
Born in London, England
Enlisted in World War I
Known as a war poet
wounded by shell fragment in lung
Good friends with poet Siegfried Sassoon
1961 became Professor of Poetry at Oxford married Nancy Nicholson in 1918
split up in 1926 for poet Laura Riding
left Laura for Beryl Hodge
Had a total of 8 children

poet, translator, and novelist
Over 140 works in his lifetime
1934- James Tait Black Memorial Prize
Among 16 Great War Poets commemorated on a slate stone in Westminister Abbey's Poet's Corner Beryl Hodge Laura Riding Sassoon
children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string,
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel -
Children leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in chich he says
he lives - he then unties the string Warning to Children On Portents If strange things happen where she is,
So that men say that graves open
And the dead walk, or that futurity
Becomes a womb and the unborn are shed,
Such portents are not to be wondered at,
Being tourbillions in Time made
By the strong pulling of her bladed mind
Through that ever-reluctant element.
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