Weirdly, most of my favorite poems are by what must be, in the scheme of things, relatively minor poets. (Though some, such as Housman and Ransom, fall into a special category I call the Great Minors.) Here are two by Robert Graves. (He is also one of those rare poets who writes a beautifully clear prose--rather than a fussy poetic one. I like my genres neat.)
I think I first encountered this gem on the London Underground some ten years ago, as part of their Poems on the Underground project. It is a curious piece--a fragment, with a nursery-rime bounce to it.
Love Without Hope
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.
And here's another I like (particularly the end). The rimes are interesting--progressing through degrees of slantness.
Sick Love
O Love, be fed with apples while you may,
And feel the sun and go in royal array,
A smiling innocent on the heavenly causeway,
Though in what listening horror for the cry
That soars in outer blackness dismally,
The dumb blind beast, the paranoiac fury:
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.
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