Quote

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.

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
Call
Immortality
Age
Red
Away
Son
Work
Wine
Years
Gave
Poured
Would
Youth
Serene
Men
Sweet
Sons
World
Joy
Laid

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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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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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Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
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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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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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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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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress and love has changed to kindliness.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
Rupert Brooke
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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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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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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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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