Verb Vixen

I read. I listen. I watch. I write.
Sunday, November 11
Permalink

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.

— I hate to let Winston Churchill’s estimation of Rupert Brooke stand, he was far more than a World War I poet, but “The Soldier” is certainly one of the most beautiful poems for Remembrance Day. So I will allow it.

Tags:   #remembrance day #rupert brooke #the soldier #poetry #world war I #veterans #armed services


1 note
Comments
Sunday, July 25
Permalink

They sleep within…
I cower to the earth, I waking, I only.
High and cold thou dreamest, O queen, high-dreaming and lonely

We have slept too long, who can hardly win
The white one flame, and the night-long crying;
The viewless passers; the world’s low sighing
With desire, with yearning,
To the fire unburning,
To the heatless fire, to the flameless ecstacy!…

Helpless I lie.
And around me the feet of thy watchers tread.
There is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head,
An intolerable radiance of wings…

All the earth grows fire,
White lips of desire
Brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things.
Earth fades; and the air is thrilled ways,

Dewy paths of full comfort. And radiant bands,
The gracious presence of friendly hands,
Help the blind ones, the glad one, who stumbles and strays,
Stretching wavering hands, up, up, through the praise
Of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries,
To all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height,
To all the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes,
And the laughter, and the lips, of light.

— "Sleeping Out: Full Moon" by Rupert Brooke

Tags:   #i read, #rupert brooke #sleeping out: full moon #poetry



Comments