2 min read
Слушать(AI)Love
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony's forgot, and hushed the
Of credulous hearts, in heaven — such are but taking Their own poor dreams within their arms, and
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.
Rupert Brooke
Rupert Chawner Brooke (3 August 1887 – 23 April 1915) was an English poet known for his idealistic war sonnets written during the First World Wa
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Sonnet V The South Seas
Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun, We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty high-roads of the aimless Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and Down some close-covered by-way of the air,
Unfortunate
Heart, you are restless as a paper scrap That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind; Saying, She is most wise, patient and kind Between the small hands folded in her Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,
Heaven
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June, Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
Day That I Have Loved
Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes, And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies
