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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!

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
Would
Nostalgia
Longing

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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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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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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.
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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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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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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
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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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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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