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.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a defiant declaration of artistic freedom. It pushes back against the demand for novelty in art and celebrates the timelessness of individual expression. The speaker directly addresses critics and readers who seem tired of traditional themes—sunsets, winds, and feelings of pain—dismissing them as worn-out or uninspired. But instead of bending to these expectations, the speaker doubles down, asserting their right to create “just what I fancy.”
The opening stanzas set up the tension between the poet’s vision and the reader’s hunger for the new. The vivid imagery of the sunset “through a red mist of Volnay wine” and the cutting winds is immediately dismissed by the speaker as something the audience will likely overlook or dismiss. It’s a meta-commentary on how easily beauty or emotion can be undervalued when it’s not presented in a novel or fashionable way.
In the third stanza, the tone shifts to frustration. The poet resents the rejection of heartfelt, genuine expression just because it doesn’t fit the ever-changing appetite for “something new.” The phrase “die stillborn” is especially striking—it suggests that these deeply personal experiences and emotions are doomed to be ignored, not because they lack value, but because they are perceived as outdated. The poet’s frustration here is universal: the struggle of any artist to balance authenticity with an audience’s expectations.
The final stanza is the poet’s triumphant refusal to conform. By invoking “Fairies and Fusiliers” and “old broken knock-kneed thought,” the speaker embraces a style that is unapologetically their own. The tone becomes almost playful, even mocking, as they warn the reader or critic to tread carefully—there are still people who appreciate the “old-fashioned” way. The poem ends with a sense of resolve: the artist will remain true to their vision, regardless of trends or critical opinions.
What makes this piece compelling is its honesty and self-awareness. It’s not just a defense of traditional themes or styles but also a broader critique of how art is consumed and judged. The poet’s refusal to cater to fleeting tastes is both rebellious and deeply human, a reminder that art doesn’t need to be groundbreaking to matter—it only needs to be sincere.