The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

He Wonders Whether to Praise or to Blame Her

   I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,
    But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.
   For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;
    Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?

   Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,
    The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;
   But if you're that high goddess once I thought,
    The more your godhead is, I lose the more.

   Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!
    Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!
   Most fair, — the blind has lost your face for ever!
    Most foul, — how could I see you while I kissed you?

   So . . . the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,
   For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.