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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?

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
Fish
Fishes
Beyond
Pond
Heaven
Ponds
Anything
Stream
Immortality
Streams

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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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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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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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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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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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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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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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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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