A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years. Rupert Brook
I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
Youth is stranger than fiction.
And then you suddenly cried and turned away.
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.
For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.
There's little comfort in the wise
Just now the lilac is in bloomAll before my little room.
Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.
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.
Somewhere, behind space and time, Is wetter water, slimier slime
Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.
.. . . would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!
And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.
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.
All the little emptiness of love!
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.
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.
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.
And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink.
Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. Rupert Brook
But only agony, and that has ending;And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
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).
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.
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.
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
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
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.