Chapter 3

RetrospectIn your arms was still delight,Quiet as a street at night;And thoughts of you, I do remember,Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.Love, in you, went passing by,Penetrative, remote, and rare,Like a bird in the wide air,And, as the bird, it left no traceIn the heaven of your face.In your stupidity I foundThe sweet hush after a sweet sound.All about you was the lightThat dims the greying end of night;Desire was the unrisen sun,Joy the day not yet begun,With tree whispering to tree,Without wind, quietly.Wisdom slept within your hair,And Long-Suffering was there,And, in the flowing of your dress,Undiscerning Tenderness.And when you thought, it seemed to me,Infinitely, and like a sea,About the slight world you had knownYour vast unconsciousness was thrown.O haven without wave or tide!Silence, in which all songs have died!Holy book, where hearts are still!And home at length under the hill!O mother quiet, breasts of peace,Where love itself would faint and cease!O infinite deep I never knew,I would come back, come back to you,Find you, as a pool unstirred,Kneel down by you, and never a word,Lay my head, and nothing said,In your hands, ungarlanded;And a long watch you would keep;And I should sleep, and I should sleep!MATAIEA,January1914The Great LoverI have been so great a lover: filled my daysSo 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 bearOur hearts at random down the dark of life.Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strifeSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,My night shall be remembered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.Shall I not crown them with immortal praiseWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with meHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to seeThe 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 namesGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,And set them as a banner, that men may know,To dare the generations, burn, and blowOut 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 lamplight; the strong crustOf 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 soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned 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 lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....Dear names,And thousand other 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 foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness 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 powerTo 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 trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.——Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."MATAIEA, 1914The TreasureWhen colour goes home into the eyes,And lights that shine are shut againWith dancing girls and sweet birds' criesBehind the gateways of the brain;And that no-place which gave them birth, shall closeThe rainbow and the rose:—Still may Time hold some golden spaceWhere I'll unpack that scented storeOf song and flower and sky and face,And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,Musing upon them; as a mother, whoHas watched her children all the rich day through,Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,When children sleep, ere night.1914I. PeaceNow, 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,Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,And all the little emptiness of love!Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace thereBut only agony, and that has ending;And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.II. SafetyDear! of all happy in the hour, most blestHe who has found our hid security,Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'We have found safety with all things undying,The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.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.III. The DeadBlow 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.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.Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,And paid his subjects with a royal wage;And Nobleness walks in our ways again;And we have come into our heritage.IV. The DeadThese hearts were woven of human joys and cares.Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,And sunset, and the colours of the earth.These had seen movement, and heard music; knownSlumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.There are waters blown by changing winds to laughterAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that danceAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a whiteUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,A width, a shining peace, under the night.V. The SoldierIf I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever 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 air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives 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.PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYBILLING AND SONS, LIMITEDGUILDFORD AND ESHER* * * * * * * *Poemsby Rupert Brooke(Originally published in 1911)Twenty-eighth Impression3s. 6d.net"The volume of 'Poems' published in 1911, which contains work written as early as 1905, when he was eighteen, shows an art curiously personal, skilful, deliberate. It shows, too, an intellectual deftness altogether unexpected in so young a poet, and it shows finally, not always but often, an indifference to the normal material upon which poets good and bad are apt to work from the outset, and in the shaping of which ultimately comes all poetry that is memorable. Nearly every page is interesting on account of its art and intellectual deftness, qualities that we should not expect to be marked...."... Even in the poems where most we feel the lack of emotional truth there is a beauty of word that made the book full of the most exciting promise. Already, too there was in certain poems assurance against the danger that this intellectual constraint might degenerate into virtuosity."—From "RUPERT BROOKE," by John Drinkwater, in theContemporary Review, December 1915.*** The poems on pp. 7-38 ofSelected Poemsare taken from the above volume.* * * * *1914 and other Poemsby Rupert BrookeWith a Photogravure Portrait bySHERRIL SCHELLTwenty-eighth Impression3s. 6d.net"To those of us who see in poetry the perfect flowering of life, the story of Rupert Brooke will always mean chiefly the score or so of poems in which he reached to the full maturity of his genius and gave imperishable expression to the very heart of his personality.... Not even the fact that the man who wrote the sonnets, than which after long generations nothing shall make the year 1914 more memorable, served and died for England at war, can add one beat to their pulse. The poetry that shines and falls across them in one perfect and complete wave is, as poetry must always be, independent of all factual experience, and comes wholly from the deeper experience of the imagination."—From "RUPERT BROOKE" by John Drinkwater, in theContemporary Review. December 1915.*** The poems on pp. 39-75 ofSelected Poemsare taken from the above volume.* * * * *UNIFORM EDITIONThe Collected Poems of Rupert BrookeWith a MemoirTwo Photogravure Portraits from Photographsby SHERRIL SCHELLExtra crown 8vo. BuckramNinth Impression12s. 6d.netSome Press Opinions of the "Memoir""To me this picture of Rupert Brooke is one of the pleasantest and most inspiriting that I have read in biographical literature for many a day. Here are 160 pages of pure gold."—C. K. S. inThe Sphere."A model of what a memoir should be."—Liverpool Post."The Memoir ... is one of the most perfect we have ever read."—Pall Mall Gazette."An admirable picture of one whom the gods loved and gifted generously."—Punch.*** The Memoir may also be obtained separately, uniform with 'Poems' and '1914,' with a Portrait from a photograph by SHERRIL SCHELL, price 6s. net.* * * * *UNIFORM EDITIONLetters from America:by Rupert BrookeWith a Prefaceby Henry JamesPhotogravure Portrait from a photograph bySHERRIL SCHELLExtra crown 8vo. BuckramFourth Impression12s. 6d.net* * * * *John Webster and the Elizabethan Dramaby Rupert BrookeExtra crown 8vo. BuckramSecond Impression *12s. 6d. *net*** This is the 'dissertation,' written in 1911-12, by which Rupert Brooke gained his Fellowship at King's College, Cambridge, in 1913.SIDGWICK & JACKSON, Ltd., 3 Adam St., London, W.C.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKSELECTED POEMS***

Retrospect

In your arms was still delight,Quiet as a street at night;And thoughts of you, I do remember,Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.Love, in you, went passing by,Penetrative, remote, and rare,Like a bird in the wide air,And, as the bird, it left no traceIn the heaven of your face.In your stupidity I foundThe sweet hush after a sweet sound.All about you was the lightThat dims the greying end of night;Desire was the unrisen sun,Joy the day not yet begun,With tree whispering to tree,Without wind, quietly.Wisdom slept within your hair,And Long-Suffering was there,And, in the flowing of your dress,Undiscerning Tenderness.And when you thought, it seemed to me,Infinitely, and like a sea,About the slight world you had knownYour vast unconsciousness was thrown.O haven without wave or tide!Silence, in which all songs have died!Holy book, where hearts are still!And home at length under the hill!O mother quiet, breasts of peace,Where love itself would faint and cease!O infinite deep I never knew,I would come back, come back to you,Find you, as a pool unstirred,Kneel down by you, and never a word,Lay my head, and nothing said,In your hands, ungarlanded;And a long watch you would keep;And I should sleep, and I should sleep!MATAIEA,January1914

In your arms was still delight,

Quiet as a street at night;

And thoughts of you, I do remember,

Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,

Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.

Love, in you, went passing by,

Penetrative, remote, and rare,

Like a bird in the wide air,

And, as the bird, it left no trace

In the heaven of your face.

In your stupidity I found

The sweet hush after a sweet sound.

All about you was the light

That dims the greying end of night;

Desire was the unrisen sun,

Joy the day not yet begun,

With tree whispering to tree,

Without wind, quietly.

Wisdom slept within your hair,

And Long-Suffering was there,

And, in the flowing of your dress,

Undiscerning Tenderness.

And when you thought, it seemed to me,

Infinitely, and like a sea,

About the slight world you had known

Your vast unconsciousness was thrown.

O haven without wave or tide!Silence, in which all songs have died!Holy book, where hearts are still!And home at length under the hill!O mother quiet, breasts of peace,Where love itself would faint and cease!O infinite deep I never knew,I would come back, come back to you,Find you, as a pool unstirred,Kneel down by you, and never a word,Lay my head, and nothing said,In your hands, ungarlanded;And a long watch you would keep;And I should sleep, and I should sleep!

O haven without wave or tide!

Silence, in which all songs have died!

Holy book, where hearts are still!

And home at length under the hill!

O mother quiet, breasts of peace,

Where love itself would faint and cease!

O infinite deep I never knew,

I would come back, come back to you,

Find you, as a pool unstirred,

Kneel down by you, and never a word,

Lay my head, and nothing said,

In your hands, ungarlanded;

And a long watch you would keep;

And I should sleep, and I should sleep!

MATAIEA,January1914

The Great Lover

I have been so great a lover: filled my daysSo 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 bearOur hearts at random down the dark of life.Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strifeSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,My night shall be remembered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.Shall I not crown them with immortal praiseWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with meHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to seeThe 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 namesGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,And set them as a banner, that men may know,To dare the generations, burn, and blowOut 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 lamplight; the strong crustOf 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 soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned 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 lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....Dear names,And thousand other 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 foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness 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 powerTo 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 trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.——Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."MATAIEA, 1914

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 lamplight; the strong crustOf 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 soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned 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 lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....

These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

Wet roofs, beneath the lamplight; 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 other 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 foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness 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 powerTo 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 trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.——Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."

Dear names,

And thousand other 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."

MATAIEA, 1914

The Treasure

When colour goes home into the eyes,And lights that shine are shut againWith dancing girls and sweet birds' criesBehind the gateways of the brain;And that no-place which gave them birth, shall closeThe rainbow and the rose:—Still may Time hold some golden spaceWhere I'll unpack that scented storeOf song and flower and sky and face,And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,Musing upon them; as a mother, whoHas watched her children all the rich day through,Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,When children sleep, ere night.

When colour goes home into the eyes,

And lights that shine are shut again

With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries

Behind the gateways of the brain;

And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close

The rainbow and the rose:—

Still may Time hold some golden spaceWhere I'll unpack that scented storeOf song and flower and sky and face,And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,Musing upon them; as a mother, whoHas watched her children all the rich day through,Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,When children sleep, ere night.

Still may Time hold some golden space

Where I'll unpack that scented store

Of song and flower and sky and face,

And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,

Musing upon them; as a mother, who

Has watched her children all the rich day through,

Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,

When children sleep, ere night.

1914

I. PeaceNow, 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,Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,And all the little emptiness of love!Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace thereBut only agony, and that has ending;And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

I. Peace

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,Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,And 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,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace thereBut only agony, and that has ending;And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. SafetyDear! of all happy in the hour, most blestHe who has found our hid security,Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'We have found safety with all things undying,The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.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.

II. Safety

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blestHe who has found our hid security,Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'We have found safety with all things undying,The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest

He who has found our hid security,

Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,

And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'

We have found safety with all things undying,

The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,

The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,

And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.

We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.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.

We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.

We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.

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.

III. The DeadBlow 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.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.Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,And paid his subjects with a royal wage;And Nobleness walks in our ways again;And we have come into our heritage.

III. The Dead

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.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.

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.

There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,

But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

These laid the world away; poured out the red

Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be

Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,That men call age; and those who would have been,

Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,

That men call age; and those who would have been,

Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,And paid his subjects with a royal wage;And Nobleness walks in our ways again;And we have come into our heritage.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,

Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,

And paid his subjects with a royal wage;

And Nobleness walks in our ways again;

And we have come into our heritage.

IV. The DeadThese hearts were woven of human joys and cares.Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,And sunset, and the colours of the earth.These had seen movement, and heard music; knownSlumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.There are waters blown by changing winds to laughterAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that danceAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a whiteUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,A width, a shining peace, under the night.

IV. The Dead

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares.Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,And sunset, and the colours of the earth.These had seen movement, and heard music; knownSlumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares.

Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,

And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known

Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;

Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;

Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughterAnd lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that danceAnd wandering loveliness. He leaves a whiteUnbroken glory, a gathered radiance,A width, a shining peace, under the night.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter

And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,

Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance

And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white

Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,

A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V. The SoldierIf I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever 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 air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives 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.

V. The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever 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 air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In 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 air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives 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.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

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.

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYBILLING AND SONS, LIMITEDGUILDFORD AND ESHER

* * * * * * * *

Poems

by Rupert Brooke

(Originally published in 1911)

Twenty-eighth Impression3s. 6d.net

"The volume of 'Poems' published in 1911, which contains work written as early as 1905, when he was eighteen, shows an art curiously personal, skilful, deliberate. It shows, too, an intellectual deftness altogether unexpected in so young a poet, and it shows finally, not always but often, an indifference to the normal material upon which poets good and bad are apt to work from the outset, and in the shaping of which ultimately comes all poetry that is memorable. Nearly every page is interesting on account of its art and intellectual deftness, qualities that we should not expect to be marked....

"... Even in the poems where most we feel the lack of emotional truth there is a beauty of word that made the book full of the most exciting promise. Already, too there was in certain poems assurance against the danger that this intellectual constraint might degenerate into virtuosity."—From "RUPERT BROOKE," by John Drinkwater, in theContemporary Review, December 1915.

*** The poems on pp. 7-38 ofSelected Poemsare taken from the above volume.

* * * * *

1914 and other Poems

by Rupert Brooke

With a Photogravure Portrait bySHERRIL SCHELL

Twenty-eighth Impression3s. 6d.net

"To those of us who see in poetry the perfect flowering of life, the story of Rupert Brooke will always mean chiefly the score or so of poems in which he reached to the full maturity of his genius and gave imperishable expression to the very heart of his personality.... Not even the fact that the man who wrote the sonnets, than which after long generations nothing shall make the year 1914 more memorable, served and died for England at war, can add one beat to their pulse. The poetry that shines and falls across them in one perfect and complete wave is, as poetry must always be, independent of all factual experience, and comes wholly from the deeper experience of the imagination."—From "RUPERT BROOKE" by John Drinkwater, in theContemporary Review. December 1915.

*** The poems on pp. 39-75 ofSelected Poemsare taken from the above volume.

* * * * *

UNIFORM EDITION

The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

With a Memoir

Two Photogravure Portraits from Photographsby SHERRIL SCHELL

Extra crown 8vo. BuckramNinth Impression12s. 6d.net

Some Press Opinions of the "Memoir"

"To me this picture of Rupert Brooke is one of the pleasantest and most inspiriting that I have read in biographical literature for many a day. Here are 160 pages of pure gold."—C. K. S. inThe Sphere.

"A model of what a memoir should be."—Liverpool Post.

"The Memoir ... is one of the most perfect we have ever read."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"An admirable picture of one whom the gods loved and gifted generously."—Punch.

*** The Memoir may also be obtained separately, uniform with 'Poems' and '1914,' with a Portrait from a photograph by SHERRIL SCHELL, price 6s. net.

* * * * *

UNIFORM EDITION

Letters from America:by Rupert Brooke

With a Prefaceby Henry James

Photogravure Portrait from a photograph bySHERRIL SCHELL

Extra crown 8vo. BuckramFourth Impression12s. 6d.net

* * * * *

John Webster and the Elizabethan Drama

by Rupert Brooke

Extra crown 8vo. BuckramSecond Impression *12s. 6d. *net

*** This is the 'dissertation,' written in 1911-12, by which Rupert Brooke gained his Fellowship at King's College, Cambridge, in 1913.

SIDGWICK & JACKSON, Ltd., 3 Adam St., London, W.C.

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKSELECTED POEMS***

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