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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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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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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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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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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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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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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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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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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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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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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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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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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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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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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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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
Rupert Brooke
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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
Rupert Brooke