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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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
Night
Columns
Presses
Press
Wave
Clouds
Flow
Noiseless
Blue
Tumult
Break
Unending
More quotes by Rupert Brooke
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.
Rupert Brooke
A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
Rupert Brooke
Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
Rupert Brooke
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.
Rupert Brooke
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Rupert Brooke
.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
Rupert Brooke
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.
Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.
Rupert Brooke
All the little emptiness of love!
Rupert Brooke
Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
Rupert Brooke
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
Rupert Brooke
And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
Rupert Brooke
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.
Rupert Brooke
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!
Rupert Brooke
Youth is stranger than fiction.
Rupert Brooke
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.
Rupert Brooke
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
Rupert Brooke
The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
Rupert Brooke
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
Rupert Brooke
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
Rupert Brooke
