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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.

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
Lasts
Last
Funny
Neighbour
Cannot
Compared
May
Neighbor
Book
Library
Long
Early
Good
Reading

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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?
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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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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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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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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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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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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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!
Rupert Brooke
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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.
Rupert Brooke
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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.
Rupert Brooke