initely loved. And then came 1914;
and his passion for life had suddenly to face the thought
of voluntary death. But there was no struggle; for instantly
the passion for life became one with the will to die --
and now it has become death itself. But first Rupert Brooke
had told the world once more how the passion for beautiful life
may reach its highest passion and most radiant beauty when it is
the determination to die."

Margaret Lavington.

London, October, 1915.

Addendum

Comprised of poems written in his memory by three poets contemporary
to Rupert Brooke. A short poem by Mr. Gibson is already included
in the Biographical Note; a set of four of his sonnets is included here.
The poems are Public Domain.

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
His body lies that was so fair and young.
His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be
Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,
Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
And David rests beneath Eternal wings,
Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

--Joyce Kilmer, from 'Main Street and Other Poems', 1917.

Rupert Brooke

I

Your face was lifted to the golden sky
Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square
As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air
Its tumult of red stars exultantly
To the cold constellations dim and high:
And as we neared the roaring ruddy flare
Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair
Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy.

The golden head goes down into the night
Quenched in cold gloom -- and yet again you stand
Beside me now with lifted face alight,
As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . .
Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn,
And look into my eyes and take my hand.

II

Once in my garret -- you being far away
Tramping the hills and breathing upland air,
Or so I fancied -- brooding in my chair,
I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey
Dapple my desk, too tired