Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Rupert Brooke Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Rupert Brooke poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rupert Brooke poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rupert Brooke poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rupert brooke poems.

Search for the best famous Rupert Brooke poems, articles about Rupert Brooke poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Rupert Brooke poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Rupert Brooke | |

The Goddess in the Wood

 In a flowered dell the Lady Venus stood,
Amazed with sorrow.
Down the morning one Far golden horn in the gold of trees and sun Rang out; and held; and died.
… She thought the wood Grew quieter.
Wing, and leaf, and pool of light Forgot to dance.
Dumb lay the unfalling stream; Life one eternal instant rose in dream Clear out of time, poised on a golden height.
… Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour.
The gold waves purled amidst the green above her; And a bird sang.
With one sharp-taken breath, By sunlit branches and unshaken flower, The immortal limbs flashed to the human lover, And the immortal eyes to look on death.


by Rupert Brooke | |

The Busy Heart

 Now that we’ve done our best and worst, and parted, 
I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted) I’ll think of Love in books, Love without end; Women with child, content; and old men sleeping; And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain; And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping; And the young heavens, forgetful after rain; And evening hush, broken by homing wings; And Song’s nobility, and Wisdom holy, That live, we dead.
I would think of a thousand things, Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly, One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Victory

 All night the ways of Heaven were desolate,
Long roads across a gleaming empty sky.
Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I, Alone, serene beyond all love or hate, Terror or triumph, were content to wait, We, silent and all-knowing.
Suddenly Swept through the heaven low-crouching from on high, One horseman, downward to the earth's low gate.
Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living, Lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom-hung, Into the open.
Down the supernal roads, With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung, Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving, Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Sonnet Reversed

 Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights 
Of heart and eye.
They stood on supreme heights.
Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon! Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures, Settled at Balham by the end of June.
Their money was in Can.
Pacs.
B.
Debentures, And in Antofagastas.
Still he went Cityward daily; still she did abide At home.
And both were really quite content With work and social pleasures.
Then they died.
They left three children (besides George, who drank): The eldest Jane, who married Mr Bell, William, the head-clerk in the County Bank, And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.


by Rupert Brooke | |

The Soldier

 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.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Waikiki

 Warm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree
Drift down the darkness.
Plangent, hidden from eyes Somewhere an `eukaleli' thrills and cries And stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.
And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me, Gleam like a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise; And new stars burn into the ancient skies, Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.
And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again, And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known, An empty tale, of idleness and pain, Of two that loved -- or did not love -- and one Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly, A long while since, and by some other sea.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Sonnet: Oh! Death will find me long before I tire

 Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,

One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
And tremble.
And I shall know that you have died, And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam -- Most individual and bewildering ghost! -- And turn, and toss your brown delightful head Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Ante Aram

 Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper,
Chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies,
Incense of dirges, prayers that are as holy myrrh.
Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low sighs, Weary at last to theeward come the feet that err, And empty hearts grown tired of the world's vanities.
How fair this cool deep silence to a wanderer Deaf with the roar of winds along the open skies! Sweet, after sting and bitter kiss of sea-water, The pale Lethean wine within thy chalices! I come before thee, I, too tired wanderer, To heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries, And evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift whirr Of terrible wings -- I, least of all thy votaries, With a faint hope to see the scented darkness stir, And, parting, frame within its quiet mysteries One face, with lips than autumn-lilies tenderer, And voice more sweet than the far plaint of viols is, Or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Vision Of The Archangels The

 Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,
Trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky,
Bearing, with quiet even steps, and great wings furled,
A little dingy coffin; where a child must lie,
It was so tiny.
(Yet, you had fancied, God could never Have bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight, And shut him in that lonely shell, to drop for ever Into the emptiness and silence, into the night.
.
.
.
) They then from the sheer summit cast, and watched it fall, Through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin -- and therein God's little pitiful Body lying, worn and thin, And curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower-petal -- Till it was no more visible; then turned again With sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain.


by Rupert Brooke | |

The Vision of the Archangels

 Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,
Trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky, 
Bearing, with quiet even steps, and great wings furled, 
A little dingy coffin; where a child must lie, 
It was so tiny.
(Yet, you had fancied, God could never Have bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight, And shut him in that lonely shell, to drop for ever Into the emptiness and silence, into the night.
…) They then from the sheer summit cast, and watched it fall, Through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin—and therein God’s little pitiful Body lying, worn and thin, And curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower petal— Till it was no more visible; then turned again With sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Mutability

 They say there's a high windless world and strange,
Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,
Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,
`Aeterna corpora', subject to no change.
There the sure suns of these pale shadows move; There stand the immortal ensigns of our war; Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star, And perishing hearts, imperishable Love.
.
.
.
Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile; Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over; Love has no habitation but the heart.
Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile, Cling, and are borne into the night apart.
The laugh dies with the lips, `Love' with the lover.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Libido

 How should I know? The enormous wheels of will
Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.
Night was void arms and you a phantom still, And day your far light swaying down the street.
As never fool for love, I starved for you; My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.
Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony.
Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver And suddenly the mad victory I planned Flashed real, in your burning bending head.
.
.
.
My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand Quieter than a dead man on a bed.


by Rupert Brooke | |

IV. The Dead

 These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness.
Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks.
All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day.
And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness.
He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.


by Rupert Brooke | |

The Dead: IV

 These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, 
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness.
Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks.
All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day.
And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness.
He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Sonnet

 Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, 
We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread 
Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead 
Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run 
Down some close-covered by-way of the air,
Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, 
Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find 
Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there 

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.


by Rupert Brooke | |

The Life Beyond

 He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death.
He opens eyes Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens.
He lies; And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, Like a dry branch.
No life is in that land, Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries; An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck Of moveless horror; an Immortal One Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead.
Alone, most strangely, I live on.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Hauntings

 In the grey tumult of these after years
Oft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;
And less-than-echoes of remembered tears
Hush all the loud confusion of the heart;
And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying
Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood, --
Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,
Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.
So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams, Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams, Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men, Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible, And light on waving grass, he knows not when, And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Day And Night

 Through my heart's palace Thoughts unnumbered throng;
And there, most quiet and, as a child, most wise,
High-throned you sit, and gracious.
All day long Great Hopes gold-armoured, jester Fantasies, And pilgrim Dreams, and little beggar Sighs, Bow to your benediction, go their way.
And the grave jewelled courtier Memories Worship and love and tend you, all the day.
But when I sleep, and all my thoughts go straying, When the high session of the day is ended, And darkness comes; then, with the waning light, By lilied maidens on your way attended, Proud from the wonted throne, superbly swaying, You, like a queen, pass out into the night.


by Rupert Brooke | |

One Day

 Today I have been happy.
All the day I held the memory of you, and wove Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray, And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love, And sent you following the white waves of sea, And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth, Stray buds from that old dust of misery, Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.
So lightly I played with those dark memories, Just as a child, beneath the summer skies, Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone, For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old, And love has been betrayed, and murder done, And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.


by Rupert Brooke | |

Doubts

 When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
Goes a wanderer on the air,
Wings where I may never go,
Leaves her lying, still and fair,
Waiting, empty, laid aside,
Like a dress upon a chair.
.
.
.
This I know, and yet I know Doubts that will not be denied.
For if the soul be not in place, What has laid trouble in her face? And, sits there nothing ware and wise Behind the curtains of her eyes, What is it, in the self's eclipse, Shadows, soft and passingly, About the corners of her lips, The smile that is essential she? And if the spirit be not there, Why is fragrance in the hair?