Poems of Rupert Brooke [32]
a flame of ecstasy.
The golden head goes down into the night Quenched in cold gloom -- and yet again you stand Beside me now with lifted face alight, As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . . Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, And look into my eyes and take my hand.
II
Once in my garret -- you being far away Tramping the hills and breathing upland air, Or so I fancied -- brooding in my chair, I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more, When, looking up, I saw you standing there Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair, Like sudden April at my open door.
Though now beyond earth's farthest hills you fare, Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me That, if I listen very quietly, Perhaps I'll hear a light foot on the stair And see you, standing with your angel air, Fresh from the uplands of eternity.
III
Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy, Fulfilling even their uttermost desire, When, over a great sunlit field afire With windy poppies streaming like a sea Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously Among green orchards of that western shire, You gazed as though your heart could never tire Of life's red flood in summer revelry.
And as I watched you, little thought had I How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky Your soul should wander down the darkling way, With eyes that peer a little wistfully, Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey.
IV
October chestnuts showered their perishing gold Over us as beside the stream we lay In the Old Vicarage garden that blue day, Talking of verse and all the manifold Delights a little net of words may hold, While in the sunlight water-voles at play Dived under a trailing crimson bramble-spray, And walnuts thudded ripe on soft black mould.
Your soul goes down unto a darker stream Alone, O friend, yet even in death's deep night Your eyes may grow accustomed to the dark And Styx for you may have the ripple and gleam Of your familiar river, and Charon's bark Tarry by that old garden of your delight.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, 1916.
To Rupert Brooke
Though we, a happy few, Indubitably knew That from the purple came This poet of pure flame,
The world first saw his light Flash on an evil night, And heard his song from far Above the drone of war.
Out of the primal dark He leapt, like lyric lark, Singing his aubade strain; Then fell to earth again.
We garner all he gave, And on his hero grave, For love and honour strew, Rosemary, myrtle, rue.
Son of the Morning, we Had kept you thankfully; But yours the asphodel: Hail, singer, and farewell!
Eden Phillpotts, from `Plain Song, 1914-1916'.
End
The golden head goes down into the night Quenched in cold gloom -- and yet again you stand Beside me now with lifted face alight, As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . . Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, And look into my eyes and take my hand.
II
Once in my garret -- you being far away Tramping the hills and breathing upland air, Or so I fancied -- brooding in my chair, I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more, When, looking up, I saw you standing there Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair, Like sudden April at my open door.
Though now beyond earth's farthest hills you fare, Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me That, if I listen very quietly, Perhaps I'll hear a light foot on the stair And see you, standing with your angel air, Fresh from the uplands of eternity.
III
Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy, Fulfilling even their uttermost desire, When, over a great sunlit field afire With windy poppies streaming like a sea Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously Among green orchards of that western shire, You gazed as though your heart could never tire Of life's red flood in summer revelry.
And as I watched you, little thought had I How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky Your soul should wander down the darkling way, With eyes that peer a little wistfully, Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey.
IV
October chestnuts showered their perishing gold Over us as beside the stream we lay In the Old Vicarage garden that blue day, Talking of verse and all the manifold Delights a little net of words may hold, While in the sunlight water-voles at play Dived under a trailing crimson bramble-spray, And walnuts thudded ripe on soft black mould.
Your soul goes down unto a darker stream Alone, O friend, yet even in death's deep night Your eyes may grow accustomed to the dark And Styx for you may have the ripple and gleam Of your familiar river, and Charon's bark Tarry by that old garden of your delight.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, 1916.
To Rupert Brooke
Though we, a happy few, Indubitably knew That from the purple came This poet of pure flame,
The world first saw his light Flash on an evil night, And heard his song from far Above the drone of war.
Out of the primal dark He leapt, like lyric lark, Singing his aubade strain; Then fell to earth again.
We garner all he gave, And on his hero grave, For love and honour strew, Rosemary, myrtle, rue.
Son of the Morning, we Had kept you thankfully; But yours the asphodel: Hail, singer, and farewell!
Eden Phillpotts, from `Plain Song, 1914-1916'.
End