1914, and Other Poems. Rupert Brooke

      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 there

      But only agony, and that has ending;

      And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

      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.

      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 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,

      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.

      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 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.

      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 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.

      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 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.

      Mamua, when our laughter ends,

      And hearts and bodies, brown as white,

      Are dust about the doors of friends,

      Or scent ablowing down the night,

      Then, oh! then, the wise agree,

      Comes our immortality.

      Mamua, there waits a land

      Hard for us to understand.

      Out of time, beyond the sun,

      All are one in Paradise,

      You and Pupure are one,

      And Taü, and the ungainly wise.

      There the Eternals are, and there

      The Good, the Lovely, and the True,

      And Types, whose earthly copies were

      The foolish broken things we knew;

      There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;

      The real, the never-setting Star;

      And the Flower, of which we love

      Faint and fading shadows here;

      Never a tear, but only Grief;

      Dance, but not the limbs that move;

      Songs