To an Ungentle Critic

By Robert Graves 1895–1985 Robert Graves

The great sun sinks behind the town

Through a red mist of Volnay wine . . . .

But what’s the use of setting down

That glorious blaze behind the town?

You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look

For newer pictures in this book;

You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.

A fresh wind fills the evening air

With horrid crying of night birds . . . .

But what reads new or curious there

When cold winds fly across the air?

You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,

But find no glimpse of your ‘New Age

Of Poetry’ in my worn-out words.

Must winds that cut like blades of steel

And sunsets swimming in Volnay,

The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,

Die stillborn, because old men squeal

For something new: ‘Write something new:

We’ve read this poem – that one too,

And twelve more like ’em yesterday’?

No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl

Just what I fancy as I strike it,

Fairies and Fusiliers, and all.

Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl

Across my verse in the classic way.

And, sir, be careful what you say;

There are old-fashioned folk still like it.

Biography

Robert Graves often stirred controversy in his endeavors as a poet, novelist, critic, mythographer, translator, and editor. Stephen Spender in the New York Times Book Review characterized Graves as a free thinker: "All of his life Graves has been indifferent to fashion, and the great and deserved reputation he has is based on his individuality as a poet who is both intensely idiosyncratic and unlike any other contemporary poet . . .

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