Robert's grandfather Charles was Bishop of Limerick & a mbr of the Royal Irish Academy. His intense interest in Irish antiquities led to his advocating the publication of the texts of the Brehon Laws; he served on the commission that was formed to accomplish this.

Robert's father, Alfred Perceval Graves [born in Dublin], was a life-long student of Celtic myth & poetry, & w/ a substantial reputation as an essayist on Irish musical & literary issues, as well for his observat'ns of nature & country life.  In addition to editing several well-known anthologies of Irish songs, he wrote [or arranged] a few himself, including the ballad " Father O'Flynn, " "Trotting to the Fair " & "A Jug of Punch." Later, having moved to England, he was a leading mbr of the London Irish Society, active in the Celtic revivalism that swept both Ireland & Britain during this period. He named the family home in Harlech "Erinfa," from the Welsh for "[facing] toward Ireland."

There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling,
Whether as learned bard or gifted child;
To it all lines or lesser gauds belong
That startle with their shining
Such common stories as they stray into.

Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,
Or strange beasts that beset you,
Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?
Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns
Below the Boreal Crown,
Prison to all true kings that ever reigned?

Water to water, ark again to ark,
From woman back to woman:
So each new victim treads unfalteringly
The never altered circuit of his fate,
Bringing twelve peers as witness
Both to his starry rise and starry fall.

Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty,
All fish below the thighs?
She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;
When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling,
How many the King hold back?
Royally then he barters life for love.

Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,
Whose coils contain the ocean,
Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,
Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,
Battles three days and nights,
To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?

Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly,
The owl hoots from the elder,
Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:
Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.
The log groans and confesses:
There is one story and one story only.

Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,
Do not forget what flowers
The great boar trampled down in ivy time.
Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,
Her sea-blue eyes were wild
But nothing promised that is not performed.