Saturday, August 30, 2014

Rupert Brooke

Somewhere upon the far Aegean sea,
In nineteen fifteen, April twenty-three,
A dirge was blown whose sorrow seemed to be
A cry that pierced the bottom of the deep.

It was a spirit cry from out the blue. . .
Too full for tears. . . too deep for anguish, too,
For that great soul to keep his rendezvous
Though his departure made a world to weep.

So now the Isle of Scyros knows a grave
Where green. . . and soft blue. . . waters ever lave
"A richer dust whom England made aware,"
And in that dust there is a deathless thing
That will stay ageless. . . while our lips can sing. . .
And England lives. . . and hearts can love and care.


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