Rupert Brooke

(1887-1915 / Warwickshire / England)

Rupert Brooke Poems

81. The Beginning 1/3/2003
82. The Busy Heart 1/3/2003
83. The Call 1/3/2003
84. The Charm 1/3/2003
85. The Chilterns 1/3/2003
86. The Dead 1/13/2003
87. The Dead: Iv 1/1/2004
88. The Fish 1/3/2003
89. The Funeral Of Youth: Threnody 1/3/2003
90. The Goddess In The Wood 1/3/2003
91. The Great Lover 1/3/2003
92. The Hill 1/3/2003
93. The Jolly Company 1/3/2003
94. The Life Beyond 1/3/2003
95. The Little Dog's Day 1/13/2003
96. The Night Journey 1/3/2003
97. The Old Vicarage, Grantchester 1/1/2004
98. The One Before The Last 1/3/2003
99. The Song Of The Beasts 1/3/2003
100. The Song Of The Pilgrims 1/3/2003
101. The Treasure 1/3/2003
102. The Vision Of The Archangels 1/3/2003
103. The Voice 1/3/2003
104. The Way That Lovers Use 1/3/2003
105. The Wayfarers 1/3/2003
106. There's Wisdom In Women 12/31/2002
107. Thoughts On The Shape Of The Human Body 12/31/2002
108. Tiare Tahiti 12/31/2002
109. Town And Country 12/31/2002
110. Treasure, The 12/31/2002
111. Unfortunate 12/31/2002
112. Victory 12/31/2002
113. Vision Of The Archangels, The 12/31/2002
114. Voice, The 12/31/2002
115. Wagner 12/31/2002
116. Waikiki 12/31/2002
117. Way That Lovers Use, The 12/31/2002
118. Wayfarers, The 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Rupert Brooke

1914 V: The Soldier

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 ...

Read the full of 1914 V: The Soldier

The Treasure

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

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