incomplete For ever longing to be merged in one With something other than itself; to beat To another's pulse; to be for ever done 

 With its sad weight of personality. Then God leaned down to his poor saint, and said: "Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth: Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth, Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?" 

 

 

 RUPERT BROOKE 

 April 1915 

 You that are gone into the dark Of unknowing and unbeing; You that have heard the song of the lark, You that have seen the joy of the spring; You have I seen, you have I known —The word you have written, your pictured head— And they say you are laid at Lemnos among the English dead. 

 Soul that is gone—is gone— Whether into the dark, Or into knowledge complete and the blinding light; Soul that was swift and free, Passionate, eager, bright, Armed with a weapon for shams, And set with wings for flight; Soul that was questioning, restless, and all at odds with life, Greedy for it, yet satiate, and sick with the shows of things —And all laid down at Lemnos, the hunger, the love, the strife, And the youthful grace of body, and the body's ministerings. 

 Darkness, darkness, or light! You have leapt from the circle of sense, And only your dust remains and the word you said: "If I should die," ... and we name you among the dead. Yet have I a hope at heart That somewhere away, apart, Knowledge is yours and joy of the act fulfilled To still your fever of soul as your fever of blood is stilled; So shall you soar and run In water and wind and air, With your old clean joy of the sun, And your gladness in all things fair, Untouched by mortality's sadness, simple, perfect, at one. 

 

 

 "COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, FOR I AM SICK OF LOVE" 

 Red lilies under the sun, Red apples hanging above, And red is the wine that is spilled On your bare white feet, O Love. 

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