„Symptomy prawdziwej miłości
To wychudzenie, zazdrość,
Spóźniające się świty“
— Robert Graves
Źródło: Objawy miłości, tłum. Stanisław Barańczak
Data urodzenia: 24. Lipiec 1895
Data zgonu: 7. Grudzień 1985
Robert Graves – angielski poeta, prozaik i badacz mitologii. Syn irlandzkiego pisarza Alfreda Gravesa.
Napisał ponad 120 książek.
— Robert Graves
Źródło: Objawy miłości, tłum. Stanisław Barańczak
— Robert Graves
Źródło: Bicie dwu serc, tłum. Stanisław Barańczak
— Robert Graves
słowa włożone w usta cesarza Klaudiusza.
— Robert Graves
przepowiednia Sybilli.
— Robert Graves
August w liście o grze w kości.
— Robert Graves
Źródło: Klaudiusz i Messalina (ang. Claudius the God), tłum. Stefan Essmanowski
— Robert Graves
Context: I do not love the Sabbath,
The soapsuds and the starch,
The troops of solemn people
Who to Salvation march.
I take my book, I take my stick
On the Sabbath day,
In woody nooks and valleys
I hide myself away.
To ponder there in quiet
God's Universal Plan,
Resolved that church and Sabbath
Were never made for man.
"The Boy out of Church".
— Robert Graves
Context: Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
My Country Sentiment.
"A First Review".
— Robert Graves
Context: Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
"Babylon".
— Robert Graves
Context: I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus … this, that and the other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles), who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as ‘Claudius the Idiot]’, or ‘That Claudius’, or ‘Claudius the Stammerer’, or ‘Clau-Clau-Claudius’, or at best as ‘Poor Uncle Claudius’, am now about to write this [[strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the ‘golden predicament’ from which I have never since become disentangled.
Ch. 1.
— Robert Graves
Context: But we are gifted, even in November,
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
"The White Goddess," lines 18–22, from Poems and Satires (1951).