Rupert Brooke - Fragment lyrics

Fragment I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped In at the windows, watched my friends at table, In the windows, watched my friends at table, Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway, Or coming out into the darkness. Still No one could see me. I would have thought of them —Heedless, within a week of battle—in pity, Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken, Thought little of, pashed, scattered, . . . Only, always, I could but see them—against the lamplight—pa** Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy gla**, Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light, That broke to phosphorus out in the night, Perishing things and strange ghosts—soon to die To other ghosts—this one, or that or I. April 1915. The Dance A Song As the Wind, and as the Wind, In a corner of the way, Goes stepping, stands twirling, Invisibly, comes whirling, Bows before, and skips behind, In a grave, an endless play— So my Heart, and so my Heart, Following where your feet have gone, Stirs dust of old dreams there; He turns a toe; he gleams there, Treading you a dance apart. But you see not. You pa** on. April 1915. Song The way of love was thus. He was born one winter morn With hands delicious, And it was well with us. Love came our quiet way, Lit pride in us, and died in us, All in a winter's day. There is no more to say. 1913 (?). Sometimes Even Now . . . Sometimes even now I may Steal a prisoner's holiday, Slip, when all is worst, the bands, Hurry back, and duck beneath Time's old tyrannous groping hands, Speed away with laughing breath Back to all I'll never know, Back to you, a year ago. Truant there from Time and Pain, What I had, I find again: Sunlight in the boughs above, Sunlight in your hair and dress, The hands too proud for all but Love, The Lips of utter kindliness, The Heart of bravery swift and clean Where the best was safe, I knew, And laughter in the gold and green, And song, and friends, and ever you With smiling and familiar eyes, You—but friendly: you—but true. And Innocence accounted wise, And Faith the fool, the pitiable. Love so rare, one would swear All of earth for ever well— Careless lips and flying hair, And little things I may not tell. It does but double the heart-ache When I wake, when I wake. 1912 (?). Sonnet: in Time of Revolt The Thing must End. I am no boy! I am No BOY! I being twenty-one. Uncle, you make A great mistake, a very great mistake, In chiding me for letting slip a "Damn!" What's more, you called me "Mother's one ewe lamb," Bade me "refrain from swearing—for her sake— Till I'm grown up" . . . —By God! I think you take Too much upon you, Uncle William! You say I am your brother's only son. I know it. And, "What of it?" I reply. My heart's resolved. Something must be done. So shall I curb, so baffle, so suppress This too avuncular officiousness, Intolerable consanguinity. January 1908. A Letter to a Live Poet Sir, since the last Elizabethan died, Or, rather, that more Paradisal muse, Blind with much light, pa**ed to the light more glorious Or deeper blindness, no man's hand, as thine, Has, on the world's most noblest chord of song, Struck certain magic strains. Ears satiate With the clamorous, timorous whisperings of to-day, Thrilled to perceive once more the spacious voice And serene utterance of old. We heard —With rapturous breath half-held, as a dreamer dreams Who dares not know it dreaming, lest he wake— The odorous, amorous style of poetry, The melancholy knocking of those lines, The long, low soughing of pentameters, —Or the sharp of rhyme as a bird's cry— And the innumerable truant polysyllables Multitudinously twittering like a bee. Fulfilled our hearts were with that music then, And all the evenings sighed it to the dawn, And all the lovers heard it from all the trees. All of the accents upon all the norms! —And ah! the stress on the penultimate! We never knew blank verse could have such feet. Where is it now? Oh, more than ever, now I sometimes think no poetry is read Save where some sepultured Caesura bled, Royally incarnadining all the line. Is the imperial iamb laid to rest, And the young trochee, having done enough? Ah! turn again! Sing so to us, who are sick Of seeming-simple rhymes, bizarre emotions, Decked in the simple verses of the day, Infinite meaning in the little gloom, Irregular thoughts in stanzas regular, Modern despair in antique meters, myths Incomprehensible at evening, And symbols that mean nothing in the dawn. The slow lines swell. The new styles sighs. The Celt Moans round with many voices. God! to see Gaunt anapaests stand up out of the verse, Combative accents, stress where no stress should be, Spondee on spondee, iamb on choriamb, The thrill of the all the tribrachs in the world, And all the vowels rising to the E! To hear the blessed mutter of those verbs, Conjunctions pa**ionate toward each other's arms, And epithets like amaranthine lovers Stretching luxuriously to the stars, All prouder pronouns than the dawn, and all The thunder of the trumpets of the noun! January 1911.