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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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Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
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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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A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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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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.. . . would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!
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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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All the little emptiness of love!
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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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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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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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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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Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
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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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I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Rupert Brooke
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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 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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