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

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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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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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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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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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Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
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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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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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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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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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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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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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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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Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room.
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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.
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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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Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress and love has changed to kindliness.
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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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