In Memory of Rupert Brooke

Not where the grasses shiver on the plain,
Nor where the rustling banners toss their glint,
Nor in the shimmer of a silk-lined tent,
But where a thousand rifles lash the rain,
And lead leaps singing through the leaden sleet,
Your heart was stilled for evermore, O sweet.

Not where the evening hangs her purple fringes,
Nor where the dawn breaks like a rose in flame,
Nor where the lovers carve their tale of names
On some unfooted shore of singing syringes,
But where the wave shall never lift your feet,
You lie at peace for evermore, O sweet.

Not where the nightingale makes music meet,
Nor where the hyacinthine woods are gay,
Nor where the dim laurels shed their spray,
But where the drums are muffled in the street,
Your heart was stilled for evermore, O sweet.

O world of over-burdened loveliness,
That asked not of him half he had to give!
And thou, whose dulcet singing lips are mute,
But hast, as one whom beauty doth not bless,
Given all, gone on before us to the grave—
There is no pain like beauty, and no rest.

published in The New Witness in 1918