1 min read
Слушать(AI)Song
The way of love was thus.
He was born one winter
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.
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
Tiare Tahiti
Mamua, when our laughter ends, And hearts and bodies, brown as white, Are dust about the doors of friends, Or scent ablowing down the night,
Theres Wisdom In Women
Oh love is fair, and love is rare; my dear one she said,But love goes lightly over I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her Such a child was she;
The Voice
Safe in the magic of my woods I lay, and watched the dying light Faint in the pale high solitudes, And washed with rain and veiled by night, Silver and blue and green were showing
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,