I suspect that Robert Graves is best known, not for his poetry, but for Good-Bye to All That (his memoir of the First World War), The White Goddess (a mythological/anthropological/philosophical work), and his historical fiction (I, Claudius, et cetera). Which, as they say, is a pity, since his poetry is very good.
Given the hundreds of poems that he wrote over a writing life of 70-odd years, it would be misleading to suggest that a particular poem is "typical" of Graves. Thus, I offer the following poem because I like it, and because the title reminds me of the title of a poem by Wallace Stevens (who I have had on the brain for a couple of months): "The Poems of Our Climate." (I am not suggesting that there is any literary link between the two poems. I am only explaining my arbitrary choice.)
The Climate of Thought
The climate of thought has seldom been described.
It is no terror of Caucasian frost,
Nor yet that brooding Hindu heat
For which a loin-rag and a dish of rice
Suffice until the pestilent monsoon.
But, without winter, blood would run too thin;
Or, without summer, fires would burn too long.
In thought the seasons run concurrently.
Thought has a sea to gaze, not voyage, on;
And hills, to rough the edge of the bland sky,
Not to be climbed in search of blander prospect;
Few birds, sufficient for such caterpillars
As are not fated to turn butterflies;
Few butterflies, sufficient for such flowers
As are the luxury of a full orchard;
Wind, sometimes, in the evening chimneys; rain
On the early morning roof, on sleepy sight;
Snow streaked upon the hilltop, feeding
The fond brook at the valley-head
That greens the valley and that parts the lips;
The sun, simple, like a country neighbour;
The moon, grand, not fanciful with clouds.
Robert Graves, Collected Poems (1938).