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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.

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
Springtime
Bloom
April
Spring
Room
Rooms
Littles
Little
Lilac

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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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Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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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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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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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 kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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