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

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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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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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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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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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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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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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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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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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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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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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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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