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Poems, 1908-1919
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Some gift at need; they move with gallant ease
Among all eager companies of men;
And never signed of age are such as these.
They speak with youth, and never speak amiss;
Of such are you; and what is youth but this?
RUPERT BROOKE (DIED APRIL 23, 1915)
To-day I have talked with old Euripides;
Shakespeare this morning sang for my content
Of chimney-sweepers; through the Carian trees
Comes beating still the nightingales’ lament;
The Tabard ales to-day are freshly brewed;
Wordsworth is with me, mounting Loughrigg Fell;
All timeless deaths in Lycid are renewed,
And basils blossom yet for Isabel.
Quick thoughts are these; they do not pass; they gave
Only to death such little, casual things
As are the noteless levies of the grave, —
Sad flesh, weak verse, and idle marketings.
So my mortality for yours complains,
While our immortal fellowship remains.
ON READING FRANCIS LEDWIDGE’S LAST SONGS
At April’s end, when blossoms break
To birth upon my apple-tree,
I know the certain year will take
Full harvest of this infancy.
At April’s end, when comes the dear
Occasion of your valley tune,
I know your beauty’s arc is here,
A little ghostly morning moon.
Yet are these fosterlings of rhyme
As fortunately born to spend
Happy conspiracies with time
As apple flowers at April’s end.
IN THE WOODS
I was in the woods to-day,
And the leaves were spinning there,
Rich apparelled in decay, —
In decay more wholly fair
Than in life they ever were.
Gold and rich barbaric red
Freakt with pale and sapless vein,
Spinning, spinning, spun and sped
With a little sob of pain
Back to harbouring earth again.
Long in homely green they shone
Through the summer rains and sun,
Now their humbleness is gone,
Now their little season run,
Pomp and pageantry begun.
Sweet was life, and buoyant breath,
Lovely too; but for a day
Issues from the house of death
Yet more beautiful array:
Hark, a whisper – “Come away.”
One by one they spin and fall,
But they fall in regal pride:
Dying, do they hear a call
Rising from an ebbless tide,
And, hearing, are beatified?
LATE SUMMER
Though summer long delayeth
Her blue and golden boon,
Yet now at length she stayeth
Her wings above the noon;
She sets the waters dreaming
To murmurous leafy tones,
The weeded waters gleaming
Above the stepping-stones.
Where fern and ivied willow
Lean o’er the seaward brook,
I read a volume mellow —
A poet’s fairy-book;
The seaward brook is narrow,
The hazel spans its pride,
And like a painted arrow
The king-bird keeps the tide.
JANUARY DUSK
Austere and clad in sombre robes of grey,
With hands upfolded and with silent wings,
In unimpassioned mystery the day
Passes; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.
Among all eager companies of men;
And never signed of age are such as these.
They speak with youth, and never speak amiss;
Of such are you; and what is youth but this?
RUPERT BROOKE (DIED APRIL 23, 1915)
To-day I have talked with old Euripides;
Shakespeare this morning sang for my content
Of chimney-sweepers; through the Carian trees
Comes beating still the nightingales’ lament;
The Tabard ales to-day are freshly brewed;
Wordsworth is with me, mounting Loughrigg Fell;
All timeless deaths in Lycid are renewed,
And basils blossom yet for Isabel.
Quick thoughts are these; they do not pass; they gave
Only to death such little, casual things
As are the noteless levies of the grave, —
Sad flesh, weak verse, and idle marketings.
So my mortality for yours complains,
While our immortal fellowship remains.
ON READING FRANCIS LEDWIDGE’S LAST SONGS
At April’s end, when blossoms break
To birth upon my apple-tree,
I know the certain year will take
Full harvest of this infancy.
At April’s end, when comes the dear
Occasion of your valley tune,
I know your beauty’s arc is here,
A little ghostly morning moon.
Yet are these fosterlings of rhyme
As fortunately born to spend
Happy conspiracies with time
As apple flowers at April’s end.
IN THE WOODS
I was in the woods to-day,
And the leaves were spinning there,
Rich apparelled in decay, —
In decay more wholly fair
Than in life they ever were.
Gold and rich barbaric red
Freakt with pale and sapless vein,
Spinning, spinning, spun and sped
With a little sob of pain
Back to harbouring earth again.
Long in homely green they shone
Through the summer rains and sun,
Now their humbleness is gone,
Now their little season run,
Pomp and pageantry begun.
Sweet was life, and buoyant breath,
Lovely too; but for a day
Issues from the house of death
Yet more beautiful array:
Hark, a whisper – “Come away.”
One by one they spin and fall,
But they fall in regal pride:
Dying, do they hear a call
Rising from an ebbless tide,
And, hearing, are beatified?
LATE SUMMER
Though summer long delayeth
Her blue and golden boon,
Yet now at length she stayeth
Her wings above the noon;
She sets the waters dreaming
To murmurous leafy tones,
The weeded waters gleaming
Above the stepping-stones.
Where fern and ivied willow
Lean o’er the seaward brook,
I read a volume mellow —
A poet’s fairy-book;
The seaward brook is narrow,
The hazel spans its pride,
And like a painted arrow
The king-bird keeps the tide.
JANUARY DUSK
Austere and clad in sombre robes of grey,
With hands upfolded and with silent wings,
In unimpassioned mystery the day
Passes; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.
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