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.
Down the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow
Youth is stranger than fiction.
I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.
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.
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.
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.
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.
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous omnipotent, and kind.
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.
Just now the lilac is in bloomAll before my little room.
These have I loved
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.
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.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
And then you suddenly cried and turned away.
They say that the Dead die not, but remain Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth. I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these, In wise majestic melancholy train, And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas, And men, coming and going on the earth.
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
And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.
The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
There's little comfort in the wise
All the little emptiness of love!
And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink.
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).
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.
For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, / A pulse in the eternal mind, no less / Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given.
If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is forever England. There shall beIn 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 ai
A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years. Rupert Brook