The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

Rupert Brooke

     I

   Your face was lifted to the golden sky
    Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square
    As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air
   Its tumult of red stars exultantly
   To the cold constellations dim and high:
    And as we neared the roaring ruddy flare
    Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair
   Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy.

   The golden head goes down into the night
    Quenched in cold gloom — and yet again you stand
   Beside me now with lifted face alight,
   As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . .
   Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn,
    And look into my eyes and take my hand.

     II

   Once in my garret — you being far away
    Tramping the hills and breathing upland air,
    Or so I fancied — brooding in my chair,
   I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey
   Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more,
    When, looking up, I saw you standing there
    Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair,
   Like sudden April at my open door.

   Though now beyond earth's farthest hills you fare,
    Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me
    That, if I listen very quietly,
   Perhaps I'll hear a light foot on the stair
   And see you, standing with your angel air,
    Fresh from the uplands of eternity.

     III

   Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy,
    Fulfilling even their uttermost desire,
    When, over a great sunlit field afire
   With windy poppies streaming like a sea
   Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously
    Among green orchards of that western shire,
    You gazed as though your heart could never tire
   Of life's red flood in summer revelry.

   And as I watched you, little thought had I
   How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky
    Your soul should wander down the darkling way,
   With eyes that peer a little wistfully,
   Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see
    Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey.

     IV

   October chestnuts showered their perishing gold
    Over us as beside the stream we lay
    In the Old Vicarage garden that blue day,
   Talking of verse and all the manifold
   Delights a little net of words may hold,
    While in the sunlight water-voles at play
    Dived under a trailing crimson bramble-spray,
   And walnuts thudded ripe on soft black mould.

   Your soul goes down unto a darker stream
    Alone, O friend, yet even in death's deep night
       Your eyes may grow accustomed to the dark
   And Styx for you may have the ripple and gleam
       Of your familiar river, and Charon's bark
    Tarry by that old garden of your delight.

    —Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, 1916.