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All the little emptiness of love!

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
Emptiness
Littles
Little
Heart
Love

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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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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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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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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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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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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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Mud unto mud!--Death eddies near-- Not here the appointed End, not here! But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, Is wetter water, slimier slime!
Rupert Brooke
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
Rupert Brooke
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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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There's little comfort in the wise
Rupert Brooke