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Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

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
Laughed
Hills
Grass
Lovely
Flung
Laughter
Windy
Summer
Breathless
Sun
Kissed
Nature
Hill

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I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires.
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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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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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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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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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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, Secretly armed against all death's endeavour Safe though all safety's lost safe where men fall And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.
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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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There's little comfort in the wise
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.
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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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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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