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The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying, And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth. We have built a house that is not for Time’s throwing. We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, Secretly armed against all death’s endeavour; Safe though all safety’s lost; safe where ...
Rupert Brooke was born on 3 August 1887. His father was a housemaster at Rugby School. After leaving Cambridge University, where he became friends with many of those in the 'Bloomsbury Group', ...
Peace. By Rupert Brooke. Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping! With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary; Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
Rupert Brooke was born on 3rd August 1887, the second son of the House Master of School Field, Rugby, and his wife Ruth Cotterill. It was here that he grew up, attending both the preparatory and main schools. His parents moved in established intellectual circles: during summer holidays, the Brooke children played with the Stephen children ...
By Rupert Brooke. These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth. These had seen movement, and heard music; known. Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Central Message: Soldiers die noble deaths for their countries. ‘ The Soldier ‘ is a poem by famed war poet, Rupert Brooke, renowned for both his boyish good looks and for this poem. Whilst a lot of war poetry, such as ‘ Dulce et Decorum est’ had a discernibly negative view, a lot of Brooke’s poetry was far more positive.
25 de ene. de 2013 · Rupert Brooke seems to have faltered, nervously, at times; these poems mirror faithfully such moments. But even when the image of life, imaginative or real, falters so, how essentially vital it still is, and clothed in an exquisite body of words like the traditional "rainbow hues of the dying fish"! For I cannot ...
