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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.

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
Gates
Sells
Fate
Broken
Citadel
Wall
Citadels
Proud
Breach
Heart
Gate
Love
Walls

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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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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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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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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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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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.
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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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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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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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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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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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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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