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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

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
Heart
Quietude
Busy
Need
Needs

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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?
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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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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There's little comfort in the wise
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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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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.
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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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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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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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