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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.

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
Think
Corners
Thinking
Foreign
Field
Army
England
Fields
Navy
Dies
Corner
Ever
Classic

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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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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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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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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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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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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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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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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 only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
Rupert Brooke