Quote

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

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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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There's little comfort in the wise
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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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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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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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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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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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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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Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress and love has changed to kindliness.
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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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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