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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.

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
Power
Shall
Going
Dies
Safest
Men
Though
Endeavour
Poor
Secretly
War
Limbs
Fall
Armed
Lost
Safety
Death
Safe

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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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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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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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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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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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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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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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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