Rupert Brooke Poems

When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
Goes a wanderer on the air,
Wings where I may never go,
...

"Oh love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said,
"But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head,
And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she;
...

I came back late and tired last night
Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
And comfortable gloom.
...

Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
...

The day that YOUTH had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the country's ends,
Those scatter'd friends
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Here in the dark, O heart;
Alone with the enduring Earth, and Night,
And Silence, and the warm strange smell of clover;
...

In your arms was still delight,
Quiet as a street at night;
And thoughts of you, I do remember,
...

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o’ the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv’d, with thousand coloured eyes
...

Mamua, when our laughter ends,
And hearts and bodies, brown as white,
Are dust about the doors of friends,
...

I have been so great a lover: filled in days
So proudly with the splendor of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
...