Rupert Brooke. April, 1915
YOUNG and great hearted, went he forth to dare
Death on the field of honour; all he sought
Was leave to lay life down a thing of naught
And spill its hopes and promise on the air.
Then lest vile foes should vaunt a spoil so rare
The sun that loved him gave a kiss death-fraught
Quenching the heaven-enkindled fire that wrought
Fair fancies, bodied forth in words more fair,
And lit the dreaming beauty of his face
With tender mirth and strength-begetting trust,—
Impotent strength, and mirth that might not save.
Therefore we mourn, counting each vanished grace.
Ne'er was so much, since dust returned to dust,
Cribbed in the compass of a narrow grave.
Death on the field of honour; all he sought
Was leave to lay life down a thing of naught
And spill its hopes and promise on the air.
Then lest vile foes should vaunt a spoil so rare
The sun that loved him gave a kiss death-fraught
Quenching the heaven-enkindled fire that wrought
Fair fancies, bodied forth in words more fair,
And lit the dreaming beauty of his face
With tender mirth and strength-begetting trust,—
Impotent strength, and mirth that might not save.
Therefore we mourn, counting each vanished grace.
Ne'er was so much, since dust returned to dust,
Cribbed in the compass of a narrow grave.
16
