 Poem No. 1 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Poem No. 1. Second Best. Here in the dark, O heart, alone with the enduring earth and night and silence and the warm strange smell of clover, clear-visioned, though it break you, far apart from the dead best, the dear and old delight, throw down your dreams of immortality, O faithful, O foolish lover. Here's peace for you and surety. Hear the one wisdom, the truth. All day the good glad sun showers love and labour on you, wine and song, the green wood laughs, the wind blows all day long till night. And night ends all things. Then shall be no lamp re-loomed in heaven, no voices crying, or changing lights or dreams and forms that hover, and heart, for all your sighing, that gladness, and those tears are over, over. And has the truth brought no new hope at all, heart, that you're weeping yet for paradise? Do they still whisper, the old weary cries? Mid-youth and song, feasting and carnival, through laughter, through the roses, as of old, comes death on shadowy and relentless feet. Death unappeasable by prayer or gold. Death is the end, the end. God then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet death as a friend. Exile of immortality, strongly wise, strain through the dark with undesirous eyes to what may lie beyond it. Sets your star, O heart, for ever. Yet behind the night waits for the great unborn somewhere afar some quite tremendous daybreak. And the light returning shall give back the golden hours, ocean a windless level, earth a-lawn spacious and full of sunlit dancing-places, and laughter and music, and among the flowers the gay child-hearts of men, and the child-faces, O heart, in the great dawn. Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes, and smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin, dead hands. The gray veils of the half-light-deepen colour dies. I bear you a light burden to the shrouded sands, where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the seas making mist garlanded, with all gray weeds of the water-crowned. There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking, and over the unmoving sea, without a sound, faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight, us with stretched arms and empty eyes, on the far gleaming and marble sand. Beyond the shifting cold twilight, further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming, there'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands, but the drear waste darkening, and at length flame ultimate on the deep. O the last fire, and you, unkissed, unfriended there. O the lone way's red ending, and we not there to weep. We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers, lovely and secret as a child. You came with us, came happily, hand in hand, with the young dancing hours, high on the downs at dawn. Void now, and tenebrous, the gray sands curve before me. From the inland meadows, fragrant of dune and clover, floats the dark, and fills the hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows, and the white silence brims the hollow of the hills. Close in the nest is folded every weary wing, hushed all the joyful voices, and we, who held you dear, eastward we turn, and homeward, alone, remembering. Day that I loved, day that I loved, the night is here, end of poem number two, day that I have loved, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number three of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Redford Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Sleeping out, full moon, they sleep within. I cower to the earth, I waking, I only. High and cold thou dreamest, O queen, high dreaming, and lonely. We have slept too long, who can hardly win the white one flame, and the night long crying, the viewless passes, the world's low sighing, with desire, with yearning, to the fire unburning, to the heatless fire, to the flameless ecstasy. Helpless, I lie, and around me the feet of thy watcher's tread, there is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head, an intolerable radiance of wings. All the earth grows fire, white lips of desire, brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things. Earth fades, and the air is thrilled with ways, dewy paths full of comfort, and radiant bands. The gracious presence of friendly hands help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays, stretching wavering hands up, up, through the praise of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries, to all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height, to the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes, and the laughter, and the lips of light. End of poem number three, Sleeping Out Full Moon, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the Public Domain. Poem number four of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. In Examination. Low from quiet skies, in through the window my lord the sun, and my eyes were dazzled and drunk with the misty gold, the golden glory that drowned and crowned me, edded and swayed through the room. Around me to left and to right hunched figures and old, dull blear-eyed scribbling fools grew fair, ringed round and haloed with holy light. Flame lit on their hair and their burning eyes grew young and wise, each as a god or king of kings, white robed and bright, still scribbling all, and a full tumultuous murmur of wings grew through the hall, and I knew the white undying fire, and through open portals, gyre on gyre, archangels and angels, adoring, bowing, and a face unshaded. Till the light faded, and they were but fools again, fools unknowing, still scribbling, blear-eyed, and stolid immortals. End of Poem No. 4 In Examination from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 5 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Pine Trees and the Sky. Evening. I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky, and smelt the sea and earth and the warm clover, and heard the waves and the seagulls mocking cry. And in them all was only the old cry, that song they always sing. The best is over, you may remember now, and think, and sigh, oh silly lover. And I was tired and sick that all was over, and because I, for all my thinking, never could recover one moment of the good hours that were over. And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die. Then from the sad west turning, wearily, I saw the pines against the white north sky, very beautiful, and still, and bending over their sharp black heads against a quiet sky. And there was peace in them. And I was happy and forgot to play the lover, and laughed, and did no longer wish to die. Being glad of you, oh Pine Trees and the Sky. End of poem number five, Pine Trees and the Sky. Evening. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number six of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Wagner creeps in half wanton, half asleep, one with a fat wide hairless face. He likes love music that is cheap, likes women in a crowded place, and wants to hear the noise they're making. His heavy eyelids droop half over. Great pouches swing beneath his eyes. He listens, thinks himself the lover, heaves from his stomach, wheezy sighs. He likes to feel his hearts are breaking. The music swells, his gross legs quiver. His little lips are bright with slime. The music swells, the women shiver. And all the while in perfect time his pendulous stomach hangs are shaking. End of poem number six, Wagner. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number seven of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Vision of the Archangels. Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world, trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky. Bearing with quiet even steps and great wings furled, a little dingy coffin, where a child must lie, it was so tiny. Yet you had fancied God could never have been a child turn from the spring and the sunlight, and shut him in that lonely shell to drop forever into the emptiness and silence into the night. They then from the sheer summit cast and watched it fall through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin, and therein God's little pitiful body lying worn and thin, and curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower petal, till it was no more visible. Then turned again, with sorrowful quiet faces, downward to the plain. End of poem number seven, The Vision of the Archangels. From the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number eight of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Seaside. Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band, the crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of men, I am drawn nightward. I must turn again, where, down beyond the low untrodden strand, there curves and glimmers outward to the unknown, the old, unquiet ocean. All the shade is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone, here, on the edge of silence, off afraid, waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me the sullen waters swell towards the moon, and all my tides set seaward. From inland leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune that tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand, and dies between the sea wall and the sea. End of poem number eight, Seaside, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number nine of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. On the death of Smet Smet, the Hippopotamus goddess, song of a tribe of the ancient Egyptians, the priests within the temple, she was wrinkled and huge and hideous, she was our mother, she was lustful and lewd, but a god we had none other. In the day she was hidden and dumb, but at nightfall moaned in the shade we shuddered and gave her her will in the darkness, we were afraid, the people without. She sent us pain and we bowed before her, she smiled again and bade us adore her, she solaced our woe and soothed our sighing, and what shall we do now God is dying, the priests within. She was hungry and ate our children, how should we stay her? She took our young men and our maidens, ours to obey her. We were loathed and mocked and reviled of all nations. That was our pride. She fed us, protected us, loved us, and killed us. Now she has died. The people without. She was so strong, but death is stronger. She ruled us long, but time is longer. She solaced our woe and soothed our sighing, and what shall we do now God is dying. End of poem number nine on the death of Smet Smet, the hippopotamus goddess, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number ten of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Song of the Pilgrims. Halted around the fire by night, after moonset, they sing this beneath the trees. What light of unremembered skies has thou relumed within our eyes, thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? A certain odour on the wind, thy hidden face beyond the west, these things have called us. On a quest older than any road we trod, more endless than desire. Far God, sigh with thy cruel voice that fills the soul with longing for dim hills and faint horizons, for there come grey moments of the ancient dumb sickness of travel when those song can cheer us, but the way seems long, and one remembers. Are the beat of weary unreturning feet, and songs of pilgrims unreturning. The fires we left are always burning on the old shrines of home. Our kin have built them temples, and therein pray to the gods we know, and dwell in little houses lovable, being happy. We remember how, and peaceful even to death. O thou God of all long-desirous roaming, our hearts are sick of fruitless homing, and crying after lost desire. Hearten us onward, as with fire consuming dreams of other bliss. The best thou givest, giving this sufficient thing, to travel still over the plain, beyond the hill, unhesitating through the shade, amid the silence unafraid, till at some sudden turn one sees against the black and muttering trees thine altar, wonderfully white, among the forests of the night. End of Poem No. 10 The Song of the Pilgrims from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 11 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke Readful LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Song of the Beasts Come away, come away, ye are sober and dull through the common day, but now it is night. It is shameful night, and God is asleep. Have you not felt the quick fires that creep through the hungry flesh and the lust of delight, and hot secrets of dreams that day cannot say? The house is dumb, the night calls out to you. Come, ah, come, down the dim stairs through the creaking door, naked, crawling on hands and feet. It is meat, it is meat. Ye are men no longer, but less, and more, beast and God. Down the lamplest street by little black ways and secret places in darkness and mire, faint laughter around, and evil faces by the star-glint scene. Ah, follow with us, for the darkness whispers a blind desire, and the fingers of night are amorous. Keep close as we speed, though mad whispers woo you and hot hands cling, and the touch on the smell of bare-flesh sting, soft flank by your flank, and side brushing side. To-night, never heed. Unswerving and silent, follow with me till the city ends sheer, and the crooked lanes open wide, out of the voices of night, beyond lust and fear, to the level waters of moonlight, to the level waters quiet and clear, to the black unresting plains of the calling sea, end of poem number eleven, The Song of the Beasts, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twelve, of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Failure Because God put his adamantine fate between my sullen heart and its desire, I swore that I would burst the iron gate, rise up, and curse him on his throne of fire. Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy, but love was as a flame about my feet. Proud up the golden stare I strode, and beat thrice on the gate, and entered with a cry. All the great courts were quiet in the sun, and full of vacant echoes, moss had grown over the glassy pavement, and begun to creep within the dusty council halls. An idle wind blew round an empty throne, and stirred the heavy curtains on the walls. End of poem number twelve, Failure, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirteen, of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Ante Aram Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper, chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litonies, incense of dirges, prayers that are as holy meur. Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint-close eyes, weary at last to thee would come the feet that err, and empty hearts grown tired of the world's vanities. How fair this cool deep silence to a wanderer, death with the roar of winds along the open skies! Sweet after sting and bitter kiss of sea-water, the pale lithium wine within thy chalices. I come before thee, I too tired wanderer, to heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries and evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift wear of terrible wings. I, least of all thy votaries, with a faint hope to see the scented darkness stir, and parting frame within its quiet mysteries, one face, with lips than autumn lilies tenderer, and voice more sweet than the far-plaint of viles' is, or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player. End of poem number 13, Ante Aram, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 14 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Dawn. From the train between Bologna and Milan, second class. Opposite me, two Germans snore and sweat. Through sullen, swirling gloom, we jolt and roar. We have been here for ever. Even yet a dim watch tells two hours, two eons more. The windows are tight shut, and slimy wet with a night's feeder. There are two hours more, two hours to dawn and Milan, two hours yet. Opposite me, two Germans sweat and snore. One of them wakes and spits and sleeps again. The darkness shivers, a one light through the rain strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere a new day sprawls, and inside the foul air is chill and damp and fouler than before. Opposite me, two Germans sweat and snore. End of poem number fourteen, Dawn, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number fifteen of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Call. Out of the nothingness of sleep, the slow dreams of eternity, there was a thunder on the deep. I came, because you called to me. I broke the night's primeval bars, I dared the old abysmal curse, and flashed through ranks of frightened stars, suddenly on the universe. The eternal silences were broken, hell became heaven as I passed. What shall I give you as a token, a sign that we have met at last? I'll break and forge the stars anew, shatter the heavens with a song, immortal in my love for you, because I love you very strong. Your mouth shall mock the old and wise, your laugh shall fill the world with flame. I'll write upon the shrinking skies the scarlet splendour of your name, till heaven cracks and hell thereunder dies in her ultimate mad fire, and darkness falls with scornful thunder on dreams of men and men's desire. Then only in the empty spaces death, walking very silently, shall fear the glory of our faces through all the dark infinity. So clothed about with perfect love, the eternal end shall find us one, alone above the night, above the dust of the dead gods, alone. End of poem number fifteen, The Call, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number sixteen of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Wayfarers Is it the hour? We leave this resting place made fair by one another for a while. Now for a godspeed one last mad embrace. The long road, then, unlit by your faint smile, ah, the long road, and you so far away. Oh, I'll remember, but each crawling day will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile dull the dear pain of your remembered face. Do you think there's a far border town somewhere, the desert's edge, last of the lands we know, some gaunt eventual limit of our light in which I'll find you waiting, and we'll go together, hand in hand again, out there, into the waste we know not, into the night. End of poem number sixteen The Wayfarers from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number seventeen of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Beginning Someday I shall rise and leave my friends, and seek you again through the world's far ends, you whom I've found so fair, touch of your hands and smell of your hair, my only God in the days that were. My eager feet shall find you again, though the sullen years and the mark of pain have changed you wholly. For I shall know, how could I forget having loved you so, in the sad half-light of evening, the face that was all my sun rising? So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand and hold you fiercely by either hand, and seeing your age and ashen hair I'll curse the thing that once you were, because it is changed and pale and old, lips that were scarlet hair that was gold. And I loved you before you were old and wise, when the flame of youth was strong in your eyes. And my heart is sick with memories. End of Poem number seventeen, The Beginning, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number eighteen of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet, O death will find me long before I tire. O death will find me long before I tire of watching you, and swing me suddenly into the shade and loneliness and mire of the last land. There, waiting patiently, one day I think I'll feel a cool wind blowing, see a slow light across the Stygian Tide, and hear the dead about me stir, unknowing, and tremble, and I shall know that you have died, and watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, pass light as ever through the lightless host. Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam, most individual and bewildering ghost, and turn and toss your brown delightful head amusedly among the ancient dead. End of Poem number eighteen, O death will find me long before I tire, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number nineteen of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet, I said I splendidly loved you. It's not true. I said I splendidly loved you. It's not true. Such long swift tides turn not a landlocked sea. On gods or fools the high risk falls, on you. The clean clear bittersweet, that's not for me. Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist. Love is flung luciferlike from heaven to hell, but there are wanderers in the middle mist who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell whether they love at all, or loving whom. An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress, or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom, for love of love, or from heart's loneliness, pleasures not theirs, nor pain. Lay doubt and sigh, and do not love at all. Of these am I. End of poem number nineteen. I said I splendidly loved you. It's not true. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Success. I think if you had loved me when I wanted. If I'd looked up one day and seen your eyes, and found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted, and your brown face that's full of pity and wise flushed suddenly, the white godhead in new fear intolerably so struggling, and so shamed. Most holy and far, if you had come all too near. If earth had seen earth's lordliest wild limbs tamed, shaken, and trapped, and shivering for my touch. Myself should I have slain, or that foul you. But this the strange gods who had given so much to have seen and known you. This they might not do. One last shame spared me. One black words unspoken, and I'm alone, and you have not awoken. End of poem number twenty. Success. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the Public Domain. Poem number twenty-one of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Dust. When the white flame in us is gone, and we that lost the world's delight stiffened in darkness, left alone to crumble in our separate night, when your swift hair is quiet in death, and through the lips corruption thrust has stilled the labour of my breath, when we are dust, when we are dust. Not dead, not undesirous yet. Still sentient, still unsatisfied, we'll ride the air, and shine and flit around the places where we died, and dance as dust before the sun, and light of foot and unconfined hurry from road to road, and run about the errands of the wind. And every moat on earth or air will speed and gleam down later days, and like a secret pilgrim fare by eager and invisible ways, nor ever rest, nor ever lie till beyond thinking, out of view, one moat of all the dust that's I shall meet one atom that was you. Then in some garden hushed from wind, warm in a sun-sets after glow, the lovers in the flowers will find a sweet and strange, unquiet grow upon the peace, and past desiring so high a beauty in the air, and such a light, and such a quarrying, and such a radiant ecstasy there, they'll know not if it's fire or dew, or out of earth or in the height, singing or flame or scent or hue, or to that pass in light to light out of the garden higher, higher. But in that instant they shall learn the shattering ecstasy of our fire, and the weak, passionless hearts will burn and faint in that amazing glow, until the darkness clothes above, and they will know, poor fools, they'll know one moment what it is to love. End of poem number twenty-one, Dust, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-two of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redmond. Kindliness. When love has changed to kindliness, O love, our hungry lips that press so tight that times an old God's dream nodding in heaven, and whispers stuff seven million years were not enough to think on after. Make it seem less than the breath of children playing. A blasphemy scarce worth the saying, a sorry jest, when love has grown to kindliness, to kindliness. And yet the best that either's known will change and wither and be less at last than comfort or its own remembrance. And when some caress tendered in habit, once a flame all heaven sang out to, wakes the shame unworded in the steady eyes we'll have. That day what shall we do? Being so noble kill the two who've reached their second best? Something wise break cleanly off and get away, follow down other windier skies, new lures, alone? Or shall we stay, since this is all we've known, content in the lean twilight of such day, and not remember, not lament? That time when all is over and hand never flinches brushing hand, and blood lies quiet for all your near, and it's but spoken words we hear where trumpet sang, when the mere skies are stranger and nobler than your eyes, and flesh is flesh, was flame before, and infinite hungers leap no more in the chance weighing of your dress. But love has changed to kindliness, end of poem number twenty-two, Kindliness, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-three of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, Red for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Mummier. As those of old drank mummier, to fire their limbs of lead, making dead kings from Africa stand panda to their bed, drunk on the dead and medicineed, with spiced imperial dust, in a short night they reeled to find ten centuries of lust. So I, from paint, stone, tail, and rhyme, stuffed loves infinity, and sucked all lovers of all time to verify ecstasy. Helen's the hair shuts out from me Verona's livid skies, gypsy the lips I press, and see two Antonies in your eyes. The unheard, invisible, lovely dead lie with us in this place, and ghostly hands above my head close face to a straining face. Their blood is wine along our limbs, their whispering voices wreathe savage, forgotten, drowsy hymns, under the names we breathe. Then from their tomb, and one with it, the night wherein we press, their thousand pitchy pious have lit your flaming nakedness. For the uttermost years have cried and clung to kiss your mouth to mine, and hair long dust was caught, was flung, hand shaken to hand divine, and life has fired, and death not shaded, all times uncounted bliss, and the height of the world has flamed and faded, love, that our love be this. End of poem number 23, Mummier, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 24, of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Fish In a cool, curving world he lies and ripples with dark ecstasies. The kind, luxurious laps and steel shapes all his universe to feel, and know, and be. The clinging stream closes his memory, glooms his dream, who lips the roots of the shore, and glides superb on unreturning tides. Those silent waters we for him a fluctuant mutable world and dim, where wavering masses bulge and gape mysterious, and shape to shape dies momently through wall and hollow, and form and line and solid follow, solid and line and form, to dream fantastic down the eternal stream. An obscure world, a shifting world, bulbous or pulled to thin, or curled, or serpentine, or driving arrows, or serene slidings, or march narrows. There slipping wave and shore are one, and weed, and mud. No ray of sun, but glow to glow, fades down the deep, as dream to unknown dream in sleep. Shacon translucency elunes the hirelin' of drifting glooms. The strange, soft-handed depth subdues drowned color there, but black to huse as death to living decomposes. Red darkness of the heart of roses, blue brilliant from dead, starless skies, and gold that lies behind the eyes, the unknown, unnamable, cyclous white that is the essential flame of night. Darkness purple, hooded green, the myriad hues that lie between darkness and darkness, and all's one gentle embracing quiet done, the world he rests in, world he knows, perpetual curving. Only grows an eddy in that ordered falling, a knowledge from the gloom, a calling weed in the wave gleam in the mud. The dark fire leaps along his blood, dateless and deathless, blind, and still the intricate impulse works its will. His woven world drops back, and he, sans providence, sans memory, unconscious and directly driven, fades to some dank, sufficient heaven. O world of lips, O world of laughter, where hope is fleet and thought flies after, of lights in the clear night, of cries that drift along the wave and rise thin to the glittering stars above, you know the hands, the eyes of love, the strife of limbs, the cyclous clinging, the infinite distance, and the singing blown by the wind, a flame of sound, the gleam, the flowers, and vast around the horizon, and the heights above, you know the sigh, the song of love. But there the night is close, and there darkness is cold and strange and bare, and the secret deeps are whispersless, and rhythm is all deliciousness, and joy is in the throbbing tide, whose intricate fingers beat and glide in felt bewildering harmonies of trembling touch, and music is the exquisite knocking of the blood. Bliss is no more under the mud, his bliss is older than the sun, silent and straight the waters run, the lights, the cries, the willows dim, and the dark tide are one with him. End of Poem No. 24 The Fish from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 25 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Thoughts on the shape of the human body. How can we find? How can we rest? How can we, being gods, win joy, or peace, being man? We the gaunt zanies of a witless fate, who love the unloving and the lover hate, forget the moment ere the moment slips, kiss with blind lips that seek beyond the lips, who want, and know not what we want, and cry with crooked mouths for heaven, and throw it by. Loves for completeness. No perfection grows, twixed leg, and arm, elbow, and ear, and nose, and joint, and socket. But unsatisfied, sprawling desires, shapeless, perverse, denied. Finger with finger wreaths, we love and gape, fantastic shape to maist, fantastic shape, straggling, irregular, perplexed, embossed, grotesquely twined, extravagantly lost by crescent paths, and strange, protuberant ways, from sanity, and from wholeness, and from grace. How can love triumph? How can solace be, where fever turns toward fever, knee toward knee? Could we but fill to harmony, and dwell simple as our thought and as perfectible, rise disentangled from humanity, strange, whole, and new into simplicity, grow to a radiant round love, and bear unfluctuant passion for some perfect sphere? Love moon to moon unquestioning, and be like the star-loonie-sequer, steadfastly following the round clear orb of her delight, patiently ever, through the eternal night. End of Poem No. 25 Thoughts on the Shape of the Human Body From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 26 Voices out of the shade that cried, and long noon in the hot, calm places, and children's play by the wayside, and country eyes and quiet faces, all these were round my steady paces. Those that I could have loved went by me. Cool gardened homes slept in the sun. I heard the whisper of water nigh me, saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone in the green and gold. And I went on. For if my echoing footfall slept soon a far whispering there'd be of a little lonely wind that crept from tree to tree, and distantly followed me, followed me. But the blue vaporous end of day brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite where between pine woods dipped the way. I turned, slipped in and out of sight. I trod as quiet as the night. The pine-bowls kept perpetual hush, and in the bow's wind never swirled. I found a flowering lowly bush, and bowed, slid in, and sighed, and curled, hidden at rest from all the world. Safe! I was safe and glad, I knew. Yet with cold heart and cold wet brows I lay, and the dark fell. There grew me wood a sound of shaken bow's, and ceased above my intricate house. And silence, silence, silence found me. I felt the unfaltering movement creep among the leaves. They shed around me calm clouds of scent, that I did weep, and stroked my face. I fell asleep. End of poem number twenty-six, Flight from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-seven of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Hill Breathless we flung us on the windy hill, laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. You said, through glory and ecstasy we pass, wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still when we are old, are old. And when we die all's over that is ours, and life burns on through other lovers, other lips, said I, heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is one. We are earth's best that learnt her lesson here. Life is our cry. We have kept the faith, we said. We shall go down with unreluctant tread rose-crowned into the darkness. And we were, and laughed, that had such brave true things to say. And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. End of Poem number twenty-seven, The Hill, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-eight, of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. THE ONE BEFORE THE LAST I dreamt I was in love again with the one before the last, and smiled to greet the pleasant pain of that in a Suntiang past. But I jumped to feel how sharp had been the pain when it did live, how the faded dreams of nineteen-ten were hell in nineteen-five. The boy's woe was as keen and clear, the boy's love just as true, and the one before the last, my dear, hurt quite as much as you. Sickly I pondered how the lover wrongs the unanswering tomb, and sentimentalizes over what earned a better doom. Gently he tombs the poor dim last time, strews pinkish dust above, and sighs the dear dead boyish pastime. But this our God is love. Better oblivion hide dead true loves, better than night enfold, than men to eek the praise of new loves should lie about the old. Oh, bitter thoughts I had in plenty! But here's the worst of it. I shall forget in nineteen-twenty. You ever hurt a bit. End of poem number twenty-eight, THE ONE BEFORE THE LAST, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-nine of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. THE JOLLY COMPANY The stars, a jolly company, I envied, straying late and lonely, and cried upon their revelry, O white companionship, you only in love, in faith unbroken dwell, friends radiant and inseparable. Light heart and glad they seemed to me, and merry comrades. Even so God out of heaven may laugh to see the happy crowds, and never know that in his lone obscure distress each walketh in a wilderness. And I, remembering, pitted well and loved them, who with lonely light in empty, infinite spaces dwell, disconsolate. For all the night I heard the thin, nat-voices cry, star to faint star, across the sky. End of poem number twenty-nine, THE JOLLY COMPANY, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. THE LIFE BEYOND He wakes, who never thought to wake again, who held the end was death. He opens eyes slowly to one long livid, oozing plain, closed down by the strange, eyeless heavens. He lies, and waits, and once in timeless six amised through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, like a dry branch. No life is in that land, himself not lives, but is a thing that cries, an unmeaning point upon the mud, a speck of moveless horror, an immortal one cleansed of the world sentient and dead, a fly fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck. I thought when love for you died, I should die. It's dead, alone, most strangely, I live on, end of poem number thirty, THE LIFE BEYOND, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-one of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Lines written in the belief that the ancient Roman festival of the dead was called Ambar Velia, swings the way still by hollow and hill, and all the worlds a song. Is far, it sings me, but fair, it rings me, quiet, it laughs, and strong. O spite of the miles and years between us, spite of your chosen part, I do remember, and I go with laughter in my heart. So above the little folk that know not, out of the white hill-town, high up I clamber, and I remember, and watch the day go down. Gold is my heart, and the world's golden, and one peak tipped with light, and the air lies still about the hill with the first fear of night, till mystery down the soundless valley thunders, and dark is here, and the wind blows, and the light goes, and the night is full of fear. And I know, one night, on some far height, in the tongue I never knew, I yet shall hear the tidings clear from them that were friends of you. They'll call the news from hill to hill, dark and uncomforted, earth and sky and the winds, and I shall know that you are dead. I shall not hear your treadles, nor eat your arvel-bread, for the kin of you will surely do their duty by the dead. The little dull greasy eyes will water, they'll pour you, and gulp afresh, they'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep like flies on the cold flesh. They will put pence on your grey eyes, bind up your fallen chin, and lay you straight the fools that loved you, because they were your kin. They will praise all the bad about you, and hush the good away, and wonder how they'll do without you, and then they'll go away. But quieter than one sleeping, and stranger than of old, you will not stir for weeping, you will not mind the cold. But through the night the lips will laugh not, the hands will be in place, and at length the hair be lying still about the quiet face. With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief, and dim and decorous mirth, with ham and sherry they'll meet to bury the lordliest lass of earth. The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving behind lone riding you, the heart so high, the heart so living, heart that they never knew. I shall not hear your treadles, nor eat your arvel-bread, nor with smug breath tell lies of death to the unanswering dead. With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief the folk who loved you not will bury you, and go wondering back home, and you will rot. But laughing, and half-way up to heaven with wind and hill and star, I yet shall keep before I sleep your ambivalia. End of poem number thirty-one, Lines written in the belief that the ancient Roman festival of the dead was called ambivalia from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-two of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Dead Men's Love There was a damned successful poet, there was a woman like the sun, and they were dead, they did not know it, they did not know their time was done, they did not know his hymns were silence, and her limbs that had served love so well, dust and a filthy smell. And so one day, as ever of old, hands out they hurried knee to knee, on fire to cling and kiss and hold and, in the other's eyes, to see each his own tiny face, and in that long embrace feel lip and breast grow warm to breast and lip and arm. So knee to knee they sped again and laugh to laugh they ran, I'm told, across the streets of hell. And then they suddenly felt the wind blow cold, and knew so closely pressed chill air on lip and breast, and, with a sick surprise, the emptiness of eyes. World of Poem No. 32 Dead Men's Love From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 33 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Men and Country Here, where love stuff his body, arm and side are stabbing sweet against chair and lamp and wall. In every touch more intimate meanings hide, and flaming brains are the white heart of all. Here million pulses to one centre beat, closed in by men's vast friendliness alone, two can be drunk with solitude, and meet on the sheer point where sense with knowings won. Here the green-purple clanging royal night, and the straight lines and silent walls of town, and roar and glare and dust, and myriad white undying parcels, pinnacle and crown intensest heavens between close lying faces, by the lamp's airless fierce ecstatic fire. And we've found love in little hidden places, under great shades between the mist and mire. Stay, though the woods are quiet and you've heard night creep along the hedges. Never go where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird, and the remote winds sigh and waters blow. As our words fall dumb on windless noons, or hearts grow hushed and solitary beneath unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons, or boughs bent over close and quiet as death, unconscious and unpassionate and still, cloud-like we lean and stare as bright leaves stare, and gradually along the stranger hill our unwalled loves thin out on vacuous air. And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss, and your lit upward face grows where we lie lonelier and dreadfuler than sunlight is, and dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky. End of poem number thirty-three, Town and Country, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-four, Of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, Redford LibriVox.org, by Graham Redman. Paralysis. For moveless limbs no pity I crave that never were swift. Still all I prize, laughter and thought and friends I have. No fool to heave luxurious sighs for the woods and hills that I never knew. The more excellent ways yet mine. And you, flower-laden, come to the clean white cell, and we talk as ever. Am I not the same? With our hearts we love, immutable, you without pity, I without shame. We talk as of old. As of old you go out under the sky, and laughing I know, Flip through the streets, your heart all me, Till you gain the world beyond the town. Then I fade from your heart quietly, As your feet steps quicken. The strong down smiles you welcome there, The woods that love you, close lovely, And conquering arms above you. O ever-moving, o lithe and free, Fast in my linen prison I press on impassable bars, Or emptyly laugh in my great loneliness. It's still in the white neat bed I strive most impotently against that jive. Being less now than a thought even, To you alone with your hills and heaven. End of poem number 34, Paralysis, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 35, Of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Redford Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Menelaus and Helen. Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke to Priam's palace, Soared in hand to Satan that adulterous whore, A ten years' hate and a king's honour. Through red death and smoke and cries, And then by quieter ways he strode, till the still In a most chamber fronted him. He swung his sword and crashed Into the dim, luxurious bower, flaming like a god. High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. He had not remembered that she was so fair, And that her neck curved down in such a way. And he felt tired. He flung the sword away, And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, The perfect night before the perfect queen. So far the poet. How should he behold that journey home, The long, conubial years? He does not tell you how white Helen bears child on legitimate child, Becomes a scold, haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold, waxed gadulous, And sacked a hundred Troy's twixed noon and supper, And her golden voice got shrill as he grew deafer, And both were old. Then he wonders why on earth he went, Troyward, Or why poor Paris ever came. Off she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent, Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name. So Menelaus magged, and Helen cried, And Paris slept on by Scamander's side. End of poem number thirty-five, Menelaus and Helen, From the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-six of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Libido. This poem is also known as Lust. How should I know? The enormous wheels of will Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet. Night was void arms, and you a phantom still, And day your far light swaying down the street. As never fool for love I starved for you, My throat was dry, and my eyes hot to see. Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony. Love, wakens love, I felt your hot wrist shiver, And suddenly the mad victory I planned flashed Real in your burning bending head. My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river in shadow, And my heart beneath your hand quieter than a dead man on a bed. End of poem number thirty-six, Libido, also known as Lust, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-seven of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Jealousy. When I see you, who were so wise and cool, Gazing with silly sickness on that fool you've given your love to, Your adoring hands touch his so intimately that each understands, I know, most hidden things. And when I know your holiest dreams yield To the stupid bow of his red lips, and that the empty grace of those strong legs and arms, That rosy face has beaten your heart to such a flame of love, That you have given him every touch and move, wrinkle and secret of you, all your life. Oh, then I know I'm waiting, lover-wife, For the great time when love is at a close, And all its fruits to watch The thickening nose and sweaty neck and dulling face and eye That are yours and you most surely till you die. Day after day you'll sit with him, And note the greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat, As prettiness turns to pomp and strength to fat, And love, love, love, to habit. And after that when all that's fine in man Is at an end, and you that loved young life and clean Must tend a foul, sick, fumbling, dribbling body and old, In his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold slobber, And you're enduring that worst thing Sinillity's queasy, furtive, love-making, And searching those dear eyes for human meaning Propping the bald and helpless head, And cleaning a scrap that life's flung by And love's forgotten, Then you'll be tired, and passion dead and rotten, And he'll be dirty, dirty, O lithe and free, and light-foot, That the poor heart cries to see, That's how I'll see your man and you, Oh, when that time comes, you'll be dirty, too. End of poem number thirty-seven, Jealousy, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-eight of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Blue Evening. My restless blood now lies a quiver, Knowing that always, exquisitely, this April twilight On the river stirs anguish in the heart of me. For the fast world in that rare glimmer Puts on the witchery of a dream, the straight Gray buildings richly dimmer, the fiery windows, and the stream With willows leaning quietly Over, the still ecstatic fading skies, And all these, like a waiting lover, murmur And gleam, lift lustrous eyes, Drift close to me, and sideways bending, whisper Delicious words. But I stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending, Shaken with love, and laugh, and cry. My agony made the willows quiver. I heard the knocking of my heart Die loudly down the windless river. I heard the pale skies fall apart And the shrill stars unmeaning laughter, and My voice with the vocal trees weeping, And hatred followed after, shrilling madly Down the breeze. In peace from the wild heart of Clamour, A flower in moonlight, she was there, was Rippling down white ways of glamour Quietly laid on wave and air. Her passing left no leave for quiver, Pale flowers reased her white, white brows. Her feet were silent on the river, And hush, she said, between the boughs. End of poem number thirty-eight, Blue evening, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number thirty-nine of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Charm In darkness the loud sea makes moan, And earth is shaken, and all evils creep about Her ways. Oh, now to know you sleep! Out of the whirling, blinding moll, Alone, out of the slow, grim fight, one thought To wing, to you asleep, In some cool room that's open to the night, lying half forward, Breathing quietly, one white hand on the white unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair Quiet and still at length. Your magic and your beauty and your strength, Like hills at noon, or sunlight on a tree, Sleeping prevail in earth and air. In the sweet gloom above the brown and white night, Benedictions hover, and the winds of night Move gently round the room and watch you there, And through the dreadful hours the trees and waters and the hills have kept the sacred vigil While you slept, and lay away of dew and flowers where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread. And still the darkness ebbs about your bed, Quiet and strange, and loving kind you sleep. And holy joy about the earth is shed, And holiness upon the deep. End of Poem No. 39, The Charm, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 40, Of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Red for LibriVox.org, by Graham Redman. Finding From the candles and dumb shadows, And the house where love had died, I stole to the vast moonlight, And the whispering life outside. But I found no lips of comfort, no home in the moon's light, I little and lone and frightened in the unfriendly night, And no meaning in the voices. Far over the lands and through the dark, Beyond the ocean I willed to think of you. For I knew, had you been with me, I'd have known the words of night. And peace of heart, gone gladly in comfort of that light. O, the wind with soft beguiling would have stolen my thought away, and the night subtly smiling came by the silver way. And the moon came down and danced to me, And her rope was white and flying. And trees bent their heads to me, mysteriously crying, And dead voices wept around me, And dead soft fingers thrilled, And the little gods whispered. But ever desperately I willed, Till all grew soft and far and silent. And suddenly I found you, white and radiant, Sleeping quietly, far out through the tides of darkness. And I therein that great light Was alone no more nor fearful, for there in the homely night Was no thought else that mattered, And nothing else was true, but the white fire of moonlight, and a white dream of you. End of poem number forty, Finding from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-one of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Song. Oh, love, they said, is king of kings, And triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, And sun and moon bow down. But that I knew would never do, And heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a queen, I said, I will not catch her eye. Oh, love, they said, and love, they said, The gift of love is this, a crown of thorns About thy head, and vinegar to thy kiss. But tragedy is not for me, and I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a tragic lady, I went another way. And so I never feared to see you wander down the street, or come across the fields to me on ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of, and what I never knew, it was that all the time, my love, love would be merely you. End of poem number forty-one, Song, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-two of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Voice. Safe in the magic of my woods I lay, And watched the dying light. And in the pale high solitudes, And washed with rain and veiled by night, Silver and blue and green were showing, And the dark woods grew darkest till, And birds were hushed, And peace was growing, And quietness crept up the hill, And no wind was blowing. And I knew that this was the hour of knowing, And the night and the woods and you were one together, And I should find soon in the silence the hidden key of all that had hurt and puzzled me, Why you were you, and the night was kind, And the woods were part of the heart of me. And there I waited breathlessly alone, And slowly the holy three, the three that I loved, Together grew one in the hour of knowing, Night and the woods and you. And suddenly there was an uproar in my woods, The noise of a fool in mock distress, crashing and laughing and blindly going, Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress, And a voice profaning the solitudes. The spell was broken, the key denied me, And at length your flat clear voice beside me, Mouth cheerful clear flat platitudes. You came and quacked beside me in the wood. You said, The view from here is very good. You said, It's nice to be alone a bit. And how the days are drawing out, you said. You said, The sun sets pretty, isn't it? By God, I wish, I wish that you were dead. End of poem number forty-two, The Voice, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-three of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Dining Room T. When you were there, and you, and you, happiness crowned the night. I too, laughing and looking, one of all, I watched the quivering lamplight fall on plate and flowers, and pouring tea and cup and cloth. And they, and we, flung all the dancing moments by with jest and glitter. Lip and eye flashed on the glory, Shorn and cried, improvident, unmemoried. And fitfully, and like a flame, The light of laughter went and came. Proud in their careless transience Moved the changing faces that I loved. Till suddenly, and other whence, I looked upon your innocence. For lifted clear, and still, and strange, From the dark woven flow of change under a vast and starless sky I saw the immortal moment lie. One instant I, an instant new, As God knows all. And it, and you, I, above time, O blind, could see in witless immortality. I saw the marble cup, The tea hung on the air, an amber stream. I saw the fire's unglittering gleam, The painted flame, the frozen smoke. No more the flooding lamplight broke On flying eyes and lips and hair. But lay, but slept unbroken there, On stiller flesh and body breathless, And lips and laughter stayed and deathless, And words on which no silence grew. Light was more alive than you, For suddenly, and other whence, I looked on your magnificence. I saw the stillness and the light, And you, august, immortal, white, holy, and strange, And every glint posture and jest and thought and tint Freed from the mark of transiency, Triumphant in eternity, Immortal. Days that length human eyes grew, Mortal strength wearied, And time began to creep, Change closed about me like a sleep. Light glinted on the eyes I loved, The cup was filled, the bodies moved, The drifting petal came to ground, The laughter chimed its perfect round, The broken syllable was ended, And I, so certain and so friended, How could I cloud or how distress The heaven of your unconsciousness, Or shake at time's sufficient spell, Stammering of light's unutterable. The eternal holiness of you, The timeless end, you never knew, The peace that lay, the light that shone. You never knew that I had gone A million miles away, and stayed a million years. The laughter played unbroken round me, And the jest flashed on, And we that knew the best Down wonderful hours grew happier yet. I sang at heart, and talked, and ate, And lived from laugh to laugh, I too, When you were there, and you, and you. End of poem number forty-three, Dining Room T, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-four, Of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Goddess in the Wood. In a flowered dell the Lady Venus Stood amazed with sorrow. Down the morning one far golden horn In the gold of trees and sun Rang out, and held, and died. She thought the wood grew quieter, Wing and leaf and pool of light Forgot to dance. Down lay the unfalling stream, Life one eternal instant rose in dream Clear out of time, Poised on a golden height. Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour, The gold waves pearl'd amidst the green Above her, and a bird sang. With one sharp-taken breath, By sunlit branches and unshaken flower, The immortal limbs flash'd to the human lover, And the immortal eyes to look on death. End of poem number forty-four, The Goddess in the Wood. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the Public Domain. Poem number forty-five of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. A Channel Passage. The damned ship lurched and slithered, Quiet and quick my cold gorge rose. A long sea rolled, I knew I must think hard of something or be sick, And could think hard of only one thing, you. You, you alone could hold my fancy ever, And with you memories come sharp pain and dull. Now there's a choice, heartache or tortured liver, A sea-sick body or a you-sick soul. Do I forget you, wretchings, twist and timey, Old meat, good meals, brown gobbits, up I throw? Do I remember, acrid return and slimy, The sobs and slobber of a last year's woe? And still the sick ship rolls, Tis hard, I tell you, to choose twix'd love and nausea, heart and belly. End of poem number forty-five. A Channel Passage. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-six of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Victory. All night the ways of heaven were desolate long roads across a gleaming empty sky. Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I, alone, Serene beyond all love or hate, terror or triumph, were content to wait, we silent and all-knowing. Suddenly swept through the heaven, low crouching from on high, one horseman downward to the earth's low gate. Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living, lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom hung into the open. Down the supernal roads, with plumes atossing, purple flags far flung, rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving, thundered the black battalions of the gods. End of poem number forty-six, Victory from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-seven of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Day and night, through my heart's palace, thoughts unnumbered throng, and their most quiet and, as a child, most wise, high-throaned you sit and gracious. All day long great hopes gold-armoured, jester fantasies, and pilgrim dreams, and little beggar sighs bow to your benediction go their way, and the grave jeweled courtier memories worship and love and tend you all the day. But when I sleep and all my thoughts go straying, when the high session of the day is ended and darkness comes, then with the waning light, by lilyd maidens on your way attended, proud from the won'ted throne, superbly swaying, you, like a queen, pass out into the night. End of poem number forty-seven, Day and Night from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-eight of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Coriambics number one. Are not now when desire burns and the wind calls, and the suns of spring light foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woomy to wayfaring? Are not now should you come, now when the road beckons and good friends call, where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea, and the best of all, love on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give? Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine, I that have yet to live? Pro will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you, now when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue, I'll forget and be glad. Only at length, dear, when the great day ends, when love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung, and friends all are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven. Then as alone I lie mid-deaths, gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow. Then may I hear the peace of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease in the silence of death. Then may I see dimly, and know a space bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old, your face. End of poem number forty-eight, Coriambics number one, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number forty-nine of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Here the flame that was ash, shrine that was void, lost in the haunted wood, I have tended and loved year upon year, I, in the solitude, waiting, quiet and glad-eyed in the dark, knowing that once a gleam glowed and went through the wood, still I abode strong in a golden dream, unrecaptured. For I, I that had faith, knew that a face would glance one day, white in the dim woods, and a voice call, and a radiance fill the grove, and the fire suddenly leap, and in the heart of it end of laboring you. Still I kept ready the altar, lit the flame, burning apart. Face of my dreams, vainly in vision white, gleaming down to me, low hopeless I rise now. For about midnight whispers grew through the wood, suddenly strange cries in the boughs above, grated, cries like a laugh. Lament and black then, through the sacred grove, great birds flew as a dream, troubling the leaves, passing at length. I knew, long expected and long loved, that a far god of the dim wood you somewhere lay, as a child sleeping, a child suddenly reft from mirth. Great and wonderful yet, white in your youth, stretched upon foreign earth, God, immortal and dead. Therefore I go, never to rest or win peace, and worship of you more, and the dumb wood and the shrine therein. So light we were, so right we were, so fair faith shone, and the way was laid so certainly that, when I'd gone, what dumb thing looked up at you. Was it something heard, or a sudden cry that meekly and without a word you broke the faith, and strangely weakly slipped apart? You gave in, you the proud of heart, unbowed of heart. Was this, friend, the end of all that we could do? And have you found the best for you, the rest for you? Did you learn so suddenly, and I not by? Some whispered story that stole the glory from the sky, and ended all the splendid dream, and made you go so dully from the fight we know, the light we know? O faithless, the faith remains, and I must pass gay down the way and on alone. Under the grass you wait. The breeze moves in the trees, and stirs and calls, and covers you with white petals, with light petals. There it shall crumble, frail and fair, under the sun, O little heart, your brittle heart, till day be done, and the shadows gather, falling light, and fight with dew, whisper, and weep, and creep to you. Good sleep to you. End of poem number 50, Desertion from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 51 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. 1914. Number 1. Peace. Now God be thanked, who has matched us with his hour, and caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, with hand made sure, clear eye and sharpened power, to turn as swimmers into cleanness leaping, glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, and half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, and all the little emptiness of love. O we who have known shame, we have found release there, where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, nor broken save this body, lost but breath, nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there, but only agony, and that has ending, and the worst friend