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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
Nostalgia
Longing
Would

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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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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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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
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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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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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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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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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All the little emptiness of love!
Rupert Brooke
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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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