The Collected Poems of 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.