Song

The way of love was thus.
He was born one wintry 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.

poem by Rupert Brooke from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, With a Memoir (1913)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fragment on Painters

There is an evil which that Race attains
Who represent God's World with oily paints,
Who mock the Universe, so rare and sweet,
With spots of colour on a canvas sheet,
Defile the Lovely and insult the Good
By scrawling upon little bits of wood.
They'd snare the moon, and catch the immortal sun
With madder brown and pale vermillion,
Entrap an English evening's magic hush . . .

poem by Rupert Brooke from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, With a Memoir (1918)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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 within)
     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.

[...] Read more

poem by Rupert Brooke from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, With a Memoir (1918)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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