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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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Rupert Brooke
Age: 28 †
Born: 1887
Born: January 1
Died: 1915
Died: January 1
Poet
Rugby
Warwickshire
Rupert Chawner Brooke
Rupert Chaucer Brooke
Time
Unto
Near
Somewhere
Beyond
Wetter
Space
Eddies
Water
Slime
Death
Appointed
Ends
Mud

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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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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
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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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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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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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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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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's little comfort in the wise
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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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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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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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All the little emptiness of love!
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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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