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Ponder Deep Wisdom, Dark Or Clear, Each Secret Fishy Hope Or Fear. Fish Say, They Have Their Stream And Pond; But Is There Anything Beyond? This Life Cannot Be All, They Swear, For How Unpleasant, If It Were! One May Not Doubt That, Somehow, Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And, Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.

-Rupert Brooke

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Ponder Deep Wisdom, Dark

Rupert Brooke

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Ponder Deep Wisdom, Dark Or Clear, Each Secret Fishy Hope Or Fear. Fish Say, They Have Their Stream And Pond; But Is There Anything Beyond? This Life Cannot Be All, They Swear, For How Unpleasant, If It Were! One May Not Doubt That, Somehow, Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And, Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.

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These Laid The World Away; Poured Out The Red Sweet Wine Of Youth; Gave Up The Years To Be Of Work And Joy, And That Unhoped Serene, That Men Call Age; And Those Who Would Have Been, Their Sons, They Gave, Their Immortality.

But The Best I've Known Stays Here, And Changes, Breaks, Grows Old, Is Blown About The Winds Of The World, And Fades From Brains Of Living Men, And Dies.

There's Little Comfort In The Wise

.. . . Would I Were In Grantchester, In Grantchester!

In Your Arms Was Still Delight, Quiet As A Street At Night; And Thoughts Of You, I Do Remember, Were Green Leaves In A Darkened Chamber, Were Dark Clouds In A Moonless Sky.

They Say That The Dead Die Not, But Remain Near To The Rich Heirs Of Their Grief And Mirth. I Think They Ride The Calm Mid-heaven, As These, In Wise Majestic Melancholy Train, And Watch The Moon, And The Still-raging Seas, And Men, Coming And Going On The Earth.

Fish Say, They Have Their Stream And Pond; But Is There Anything Beyond?

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.

Just Now The Lilac Is In Bloom All Before My Little Room.

Oh! Death Will Find Me Long Before I Tire Of Watching You.

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's Some Corner Of A Foreign Field That Is Forever 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.

I Thought When Love For You Died, I Should Die. It's Dead. Alone, Most Strangely, I Live On.

Proud, Then, Clear-eyed And Laughing, Go To Greet Death As A Friend!

And In That Heaven Of All Their Wish, There Shall Be No More Land, Say Fish

And In My Flower-beds, I Think, Smile The Carnation And The Pink.

Spend In Pure Converse Our Eternal Day; Think Each In Each, Immediately Wise; Learn All We Lacked Before; Hear, Know, And Say What This Tumultuous Body Now Denies; And Feel, Who Have Laid Our Groping Hands Away; And See, No Longer Blinded By Our Eyes.

I Have Been So Great A Lover: Filled My Days So Proudly With The Splendour Of Love's Praise, The Pain, The Calm, And The Astonishment, Desire Illimitable, And Silent Content, And All Dear Names Men Use, To Cheat Despair, For The Perplexed And Viewless Streams That Bear Our Hearts At Random Down The Dark Of Life.

Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire Of Watching For You; And Swing Me Suddenly Into The Shade And Loneliness And Mire Of The Last Land!

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's Some Corner Of A Foreign Field That Is For Ever England.

Mud Unto Mud!--death Eddies Near-- Not Here The Appointed End, Not Here! But Somewhere, Beyond Space And Time, Is Wetter Water, Slimier Slime!

Down The Blue Night The Unending Columns Press In Noiseless Tumult, Break And Wave And Flow

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.

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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.

I Have Need To Busy My Heart With Quietude.

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A Kiss Makes The Heart Young Again And Wipes Out The Years.

Breathless, We Flung Us On A Windy Hill, Laughed In The Sun, And Kissed The Lovely Grass.

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All The Little Emptiness Of Love!

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For Cambridge People Rarely Smile, Being Urban, Squat, And Packed With Guile.

Hearts At Peace, Under An English Heaven.

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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.

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