1914 and Other Poems

By Brooke, Rupert

Book Id: WPLBN0000679024
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 0.1 MB
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	1914 and Other Poems
Author:	Brooke, Rupert
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Brooke, B. R. (n.d.). 1914 and Other Poems. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.cc/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: 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, // Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, // Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, // And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, // And all the little emptiness of love! // Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there, // Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, // Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; // Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there // But only agony, and that has ending; // And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. // II. SAFETY // Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest // He who has found our hid security, // Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest, // And heard our word, Who is so safe as we? // We have found safety with all things undying, // The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth, // The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying, // And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth. // We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing. // We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. // 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. // III. The DEAD // Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! // There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, // But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. // 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. // Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, // Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain, // Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, // And paid his subjects with a royal wage; // And Nobleness walks in our ways again; // And we have come into our heritage. // IV. The DEAD // These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, // Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. // The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, // And sunset, and the colours of the earth. // These had seen movement, and heard music; known // Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; // Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; // Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. // There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter // And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, // Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance // And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white // Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, // A width, a shining peace, under the night. // V. The SOLDIER // If I should die, think only this of me: // That there's some corner of a foreign field // That is for ever England. There shall be // In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; // A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, // Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, // A body of England's, breathing English air, // Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. // And think, this heart, all evil shed away, // A pulse in the eternal mind, no less // Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; // Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; // And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, // In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. // Rupert Brooke // The Chilterns // Your hands, my dear, adorable, // Your lips of tenderness // -Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well, // Three years, or a bit less. // It wasn't a success. // Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road, // 2 // Quit of my youth and you, // The Roman road to Wendover // By Tring and Lilley Hoo, // As a free man may do. // For youth goes over, the joys that fly, // The tears that follow fast; // And the dirtiest things we do must lie // Forgotten at the last; // Even love goes past. // What's left behind I shall not find, // The splendor and the pain; // The splash of sun, the shouting wind, // And the brave sting of rain, // I may not meet again. // But the years, that take the best away, // Give something in the end; // And a better friend than love have they, // For none to mar or mend, // That have themselves to friend. // 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. // White mist about the black hedgerows, // The slumbering Midland plain, // The silence where the clover grows, // And the dead leaves in the lane, // Certainly, these remain. // And I shall find some girl perhaps, // And a better one than you, // With eyes as wise, but kindlier, // With lips as soft, but true. // And I daresay she will do. // Rupert Brooke // Retrospect // 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. // Love, in you, went passing by, // Penetrative, remote, and rare, // Like a bird in the wide air; // And, as the bird, it left no trace // In the heaven of your face. // In your stupidity I found // The sweet hush after a sweet sound. // All about you was the light // 3 // That dims the graying end of night; // Desire was the unrisen sun, // Joy the day not yet begun, // With tree whispering to tree, // Without wind, quietly. // Wisdom slept within your hair, // And Long-suffering was there, // And, in the flowing of your dress, // Undiscerning Tenderness. // And when you thought, it seemed to me, // Infinitely, and like a sea, // About the sleight world you had known // Your vast unconsciousness was thrown.... // O haven without wave or tide! // Silence, in which all songs have died! // Holy book, where all hearts are still! // And home at length, under the hill! // O mother quiet, breasts of peace, // Where love itself would faint and cease! // O infinite deep I never knew, // I would come back, come back to you; // Find you, as a pool unstirred, // Kneel down by you, and never a word; // Lay my head, and nothing said, // In your hands, ungarlanded. // And a long watch you would keep; // And I should sleep, and I should sleep!