Word: graveses
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In the meantime, the I.R.A. appears capable of playing its cruel, destructive patriot game to the end. For better or worse, the words that Pearse spoke in 1915 over the grave of the Fenian patriot O'Donovan Rossa now reverberate across Ireland with every gunshot and bomb blast: "They think...
With Graves, love, like an army day, begins with reveille and ends with taps. Only wisdom and patience relieve the passion and the pain. Yet, this poet would insist, love is the disease most worth having, for its opposite is the doleful serenity of death-in-life.
Pondering the mystery of love, Graves never fears to ask an outright question. One poem is called "What Is Love?":
At 75, Graves has lived through six of the seven ages of man, and his mind ranges over them all, most poignantly perhaps in dated but resonant lines that recall the roistering celebrants of "Armistice Day: 1918," and then closes:
When Graves is playful, and he sometimes is, he is as cheerful and civilized as Auden. Some alphabetical intrali-gual fun in a poem called "H" produces as its last word the best word to sum up the quality that permeates this book: