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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.

Rupert Brooke

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Rupert Brooke
Age: 28 †
Born: 1887
Born: January 1
Died: 1915
Died: January 1
Poet
Rugby
Warwickshire
Rupert Chawner Brooke
Rupert Chaucer Brooke
Makes
Wipes
Young
Valentine
Heart
Wipe
Years
Kiss
Love
Romance
Kissing
Lips
Relationship

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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?
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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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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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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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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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It's all a terrible tragedy. And yet, in it's details, it's great fun. And - apart from the tragedy - I've never felt happier or better in my life than in those days in Belgium.
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Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress and love has changed to kindliness.
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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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In your arms was still delight, Quiet as a street at night And thoughts of you, I do remember, Were green leaves in a darkened chamber, Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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