RUPERT BROOKE

A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

We always love those who admire us; we do not always love those whom we admire.

Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.

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.

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.

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.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

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.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.

One may not doubt that, somehow Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And sure, the reverent eye must see A purpose in Liquidity.

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.

Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.