For England's the one land, I know, / Where men with Splendid Hearts may go; / And Cambridgeshire, of all England, / The shire for Men who Understand.
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.
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.
They love the Good; they worship Truth; / They laugh uproariously in youth; / (And when they get to feeling old, / They up and shoot themselves, I'm told).
These have I loved
Oh! death will find me, long before I tireOf watching for you; and swing me suddenlyInto the shade and loneliness and mireOf the last land!
We always love those who admire us; we do not always love those whom we admire.
Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?
Down the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
There are three good things in this world. One is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.
The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
These laid the world away; poured out the redSweet wine of youth; gave up the years to beOf work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, / A pulse in the eternal mind, no less / Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given.
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.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Just now the lilac is in bloomAll before my little room.
But the best I've knownStays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.
Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.
I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you
Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.
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.
Oh! Death will find me long before I tire / Of watching you; and swing me suddenly / Into the shade and loneliness and mire / Of the last land!
All the little emptiness of love!
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.
Somewhere, behind space and time, Is wetter water, slimier slime
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
And then you suddenly cried and turned 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.
Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.