Rupert Brooke

Sir, since the last Elizabethan died,

(From a sonnet-sequence)

When Beauty and Beauty meet

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,

I came back late and tired last night

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,

Now, God be thanked Who has watched us with His hour,

I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky,

They sleep within. . . .

Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun,

Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights

I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire

I think if you had loved me when I wanted;

The Day that Youth had died,

He wakes, who never thought to wake again,

All in the town were still asleep,

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;

If I should die, think only this of me:

Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,

"Oh love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said,