Rupert Brooke. 1887–1915

  

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 still content,

 And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,

For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear

 Our hearts at random down the dark of life.

 Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife

 Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,

 My night shall be remembered for a star

That outshone all the suns of all men's days.

 Shall I not crown them with immortal praise

 Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me

 High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see

 The inenarrable godhead of delight?

Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.

 A city:—and we have built it, these and I.

 An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.

 So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,

 And the high cause of Love's magnificence,

And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names

 Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,

 And set them as a banner, that men may know,

 To dare the generations, burn, and blow

 Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming....

These I have loved:

       White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

 Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

 Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

 Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;

Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

 And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

 And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,

 Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;

 Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon

Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss

 Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is

 Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen

 Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;

 The benison of hot water; furs to touch;

The good smell of old clothes; and other such—

 The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,

 Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers

 About dead leaves and last year's ferns....

                                   

                                Dear names,

 And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;

Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;

 Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:

 Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,

 Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;

 Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam

That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;

And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold

Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;

Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;

And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;

And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—

All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.

Whatever passes not, in the great hour,

Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power

To hold them with me through the gate of Death.

They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,

 Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust

 And sacramented covenant to the dust.

 —Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,

 And give what's left of love again, and make

New friends, now strangers....

                  

                        But the best I've known,

 Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown

 About the winds of the world, and fades from brains

 Of living men, and dies.

                  Nothing remains.

   

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again

This one last gift I give: that after men

 Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed

 Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."