My rating:
add to my books
Loading...
Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke
Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
Paperback, 168 pages
Published
April 9th 2008
by Freeman Press
(first published January 1st 1918)
There is a good chance some of your friends read this book. Sign in to see!
sign in »
Friend Reviews
To see what your friends thought of this book,
please sign up.
This book is currently not featured on any Listopia lists.
Add this book to your favorite list »
Community Reviews
(showing
1-30
of
142)
I live in Cambridge, England, and Rupert Brooke is our local poet. To be absolutely correct, he's Grantchester's local poet; Grantchester is a picturesque little village about a mile and a half up the river from Cambridge proper. We often walk there on Sunday, and have a cup of tea and a scone in the Orchard, which used to be one of Rupert's favorite haunts. They remember him well, and have even a room that serves as the Rupert Brooke Museum. Admission is free.
If you've never heard o...more
If you've never heard o...more
All suddenly the wind comes soft,
And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
And my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter’s broken and earth has woken,
And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
And my heart puts forth its pain.
And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
And my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter’s broken and earth has woken,
And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
And my heart puts forth its pain.
Amazing English poet, very inspirational, one of my favorites of his time.
Not sure it was this edition. Good poetry.
His poetry and his short life are so moving.
Gypsie Holley
rated it
·
review of another edition
·
review of another edition
Recommends it for:
all that have a love of poetry.
Shelves:
poetry-writing
I love old poetry books. My favorite two poems in here were "Doubts" and "The Calling"
1915 1st ed. was destroyed in the flood.
Brilliant, lean poetry. Haunting.
his death was certainly my loss.
My WWI poet boyfriend.
There are no discussion topics on this book yet.
Be the first to start one »
Rupert Chawner Brooke (middle name sometimes given as Chaucer) (3 August 1887 – 23 April 1915) was an English poet known for his idealistic war sonnets written during the First World War, especially The Soldier. He was also known for his boyish good looks, which it is alleged prompted the Irish poet William Butler Yeats to describe him as "the handsomest young man in England.
Brook...more
More about Rupert Brooke...
Brook...more
Share This Book
No trivia or quizzes yet. Add some now »
“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 Stair 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.”
—
2 people liked it
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 Stair 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.”
“I said I splendidly loved you; it’s not true.
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls–on you–
The clean clear bitter-sweet that’s not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like 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.
Pleasure’s not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
And do not love at all. Of these am I”
—
1 person liked it
More quotes…
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls–on you–
The clean clear bitter-sweet that’s not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like 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.
Pleasure’s not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
And do not love at all. Of these am I”
