Rupert Brooke Quotes

Youth is stranger than fiction.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.

But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous omnipotent, and kind.

For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.

And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish

It's all a terrible tragedy. And yet, in it's details, it's great fun. And - apart from the tragedy - I've never felt happier or better in my life than in those days in Belgium.

Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.

I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.

Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.

Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.

And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.

Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.

There's little comfort in the wise

Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.

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.

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.

Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

All the little emptiness of love!

A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.

There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.

If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.