Rupert Brooke Quotes
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And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink.
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A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.
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I have been so great a lover: filled my days So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, Desire illimitable, and silent content, And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
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Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
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Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping.
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These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear, For how unpleasant, if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see A Purpose in Liquidity.
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There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.
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Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
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Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.
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Oh! death will find me, long before I tire Of watching for you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade and loneliness and mire Of the last land!
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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?
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Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.
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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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But the best I've known Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies.
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I thought when love for you died, I should die. It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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All the little emptiness of love!
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Mud unto mud!--Death eddies near-- Not here the appointed End, not here! But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, Is wetter water, slimier slime!
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I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.
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