The Picture Book See all items with this value

When I was not quite five years old
I first saw the blue picture book,
And FrŠulein Spitzenburger told
Stories that sent me hot and cold;
I loathed it, yet I had to look:
It was a German book.
I smiled at first, for she'd begun
With a back-garden broad and green,
And rabbits nibbling there: page one
Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
From the low hedge: he lay unseen
Behind: oh, it was mean!
They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
And FrŠulein laughed, 'Ho, ho! Ho, ho!'
And gave my middle a hard smack.
I wish that I'd hit back.
Then when I cried she laughed again;
On the next page was a dead boy
Murdered by robbers in a lane;
His clothes were red with a big stain
Of blood, he held a broken toy,
The poor, poor little boy!
I had to look: there was a town
Burning where every one got caught,
Then a fish pulled a nigger down
Into the lake and made him drown,
And a man killed his friend; they fought
For money, FrŠulein thought.
Old FrŠulein laughed, a horrid noise.
'Ho, ho!' Then she explained it all.
How robbers kill the little boys
And torture them and break their toys.
Robbers are always big and tall:
I cried: I was so small.
How a man often kills his wife,
How every one dies in the end
By fire, or water or a knife.
If you're not careful in this life,
Even if you can trust your friend,
You won't have long to spend.
I hated it---old FrŠulein picked
Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
I had to listen, FrŠulein licked
Her fingers several times and flicked
The pages over; in a fit
Of rage I spat at it...
And lying in my bed that night
Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
A stretch of barren years in sight,
Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
Where weak things must creep underground,
And I could not sleep sound.

3450.txt

Graves, Robert (1895-1985) See all items with this value

(1995, 1997, 1999)

1997-01-01

1999-12-31

Poem

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

3450.txt