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The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

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
Slaves
Slave
Rules
Worst
Passion

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And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
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But only agony, and that has ending And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
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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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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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Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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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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Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything Beyond?
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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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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
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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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Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress and love has changed to kindliness.
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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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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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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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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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Youth is stranger than fiction.
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Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Rupert Brooke
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
Rupert Brooke