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. — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
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… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
One may not doubt that, somehow Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And sure, the reverent eye must see A purpose in… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
“Out of the nothingness of sleep, The slow dreams of Eternity, There was a thunder on the deep: I came, because you called to… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
“That night, how could I sleep? I lay and watched the lonely gloom; And watched the moonlight creep From wall to basin, round the… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend! — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
“Failure Because God put His adamantine fate Between my sullen heart and its desire, I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate, Rise… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
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;… — Rupert Brooke Copy Share Image
