This Endless Only

      I rediscovered this poem last night, just perusing through an anthology. It's a fine poem (the second line is classic), and one that most people seem to enjoy, even if they very often misinterpret it. I remember discussing the poem with someone when I was an undergrad, and this young woman insisted, absolutely INSISTED, that the poem was a warning to children about nuclear proliferation. Aha. Ahem. Check the date, honey, I thought to myself as I rolled my eyes in condescension; nuclear weapons weren't even invented when the poem was written. It was about that time I think I first used the word "chick-let" in my mind, a word which has since had a prolific career in my private vocabulary. Yes, I suppose there's a kind of chauvinism involved there, but this young woman was the epitome of empty-headed chick-let-ness; she probably thought Hemingway was an animal rights activist and that King Lear was really about the need to develop old-age homes. Oh, so long ago.... One of the things I love about this poem is its rhythm, which gathers momentum very quickly and then clicks into a wonderfully cheeky clip that would have fit comfortably into the world of nursery rhymes and Lewis Carroll. Why does no one ever teach Graves anymore? Hmmm. Graves' sense of enjambment here is nothing less than perfect. Anyway, enjoy.

Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel ---
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
He lives --- he then unties the string.

--- Robert Graves (1929)