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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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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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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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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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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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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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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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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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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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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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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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