Robert Graves was not a poet, though he did translate several poems. He wrote the books I Claudius and Claudius the God as semi-fictional histories of the Roman Imperial Family of the first century BCE. Sorry about the rant.
> Accually, the lyrics to the famous deul of the fates is a line from
> "The Battle of the Trees" as is translated into sandscrit. The
> original poem was in celtic, and in the 50s or 60s was translated into
> english by a poet named Robert Graves. The line that Williams translated
> was
> "Under the tongue root a fight most dread,
and another raging,
> behind, in the head."
> the entire poem is as follows;
> The Battle of the Trees
> translated by Robert Graves
> The tops of the beech tree have sprouted of late,
are changed and
> renewed from their withered state.
> When the beech prospers, though spells and litanies
the oak tops
> entangle, there is hope for trees.
> I have plundered the fern, through all secrets I spy,
Old Math ap
> Mathonwy knew no more than I.
> For with nine sorts of faculty God has gifted me,
I am fruit of fruits
> gathered from nine sorts of tree -
> Plum, quince, whortle, mulberry, respberry, pear,
black cherry and
> white, with the sorb in me share.
> From my seat at Fefynedd, a city that is strong,
I watched the trees
> and green things hastening along.
> Retreating from happiness they would fein be set
in forms of the chief
> letters of the alphabet.
> Wayfarers wandered, warriors were dismayed
at renewal of conflicts
> such as Gwydion made;
> Under the tongue root a fight most dread,
and another raging, behind,
> in the head.
> The alders in the front line began the affray.
Willow and rowan-tree
> were tardy in array.
> The holly, dark green, made a resolute stand;
he is armed with many
> spear-points wounding the hand.
> With foot-beat of the swift oak heaven and earth rung;
"Stout
> Guardian of the Door", his name in every tongue.
> Great was the gorse in battle, and the ivy at his prime;
the hazel was
> arbiter and this charmed time.
> Uncouth and savage was the fir, cruel the ash tree -
turns not aside a
> foot-breadth, straight at the heart runs he.
> The birch, though very noble, armed himself but late:
a sign not of
> cowardice but of high estate.
> The heath gave consolation to the toil-spent folk,
the long-enduring
> poplars in battle much broke.
> Some of them were cast away on the field of fight
because of holes
> torn in them by the enemy's might.
> Very wrathful was the vine whose henchmen are the elms;
I exalt him
> mightily to rulers of realms.
> Strong chieftains were the blackthorn with his ill fruit,
the
> unbeloved whitethorn who wears the same suit.
> The swift-pursuing reed, the broom with his brood,
and the furse but
> ill-behaved until he is subdued.
> The dower-scattering yew stood glum at the fight's fringe,
with the
> elder slow to burn amid fires that singe.
> And the blessed wild apple laughing in pride
from the Gorchan of
> Maeldrew, by the rock side.
> In shelter linger privet and woodbine,
inexperienced in warfare, and
> the courtly pine.
> But I, although slighted because I was not big,
Fought, trees, in your
> array on the field of Goddeu Brig.
