Chapter 9
The Great Lover by Rupert Brooke Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry In Bath on July 23rd, 2016 I have been so great a lover, Filled my days so proudly with the splendour of love's praise,
The pain, the calm and the astonishment, Desire illimitable and still content, And all the dear names men use to cheat despair, For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear our hearts at random, Down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife steals down, I would cheat drowsy death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star, That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise, whom I have loved?
Who have given me, dared with me, high secrets, And in darkness knelt to see, the inenourable godhead of delight. Love is a flame, we have beaconed the world's night, A city, and we have built it, these and I, An emperor, we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, here I go hence, And to the high cause of love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names, Golden forever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know to dare the generations,
Burn and blow out on the wind of time, shining and streaming. These I have loved, white plates and cups, clean gleaming, Ringed with blue lines, and feathery fairy dust, Wet roofs beneath the lamplight, the strong crust of friendly bread, And many tasting food, rainbows and the blue bitter smoke of wood,
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers, And flowers themselves that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon. Then the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble, And the rough male kiss of blankets, grainy wood,
Live hair that is shining and free, blue massing clouds, The keen, unpassioned beauty of a great machine, The benison of hot water, furs to touch, The good smell of old clothes and other such, The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance and the musty reek that lingers about dead leaves and last year's ferns, Dear names and thousand other throng to me, Royal flames, sweet waters dimpling laugh from tap or spring, Holes in the ground and voices that do sing, Voices in laughter too and body's pain soon turn to peace,
And the deep panting train, firm sands, The little dulling edge of foam that browns and dwindles as the wave goes home, And washing stones, gay for an hour, The cold graveness of iron, moist black earthen mould, Sleep and high places, footprints in the dew,
And oaks and brown horse chestnuts glossy new, And new peeled sticks and shining pools on grass, All these have been my loves, and these shall pass whatever passes not in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers have power to hold them with me through the gate of death, They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell love's trust, And sacramented covenant to the dust, Oh, never a doubt, but somewhere I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, And make new friends, now strangers,
But the best I've known stays here, And changes, breaks, grows old, Is blown about the winds of the world, And fades from brains of living men, and dies, Nothing remains, oh dear my loves,
Oh faithless once again, this one last gift I give, That after men shall know, and later lovers, far removed, praise you, All these were lovely, say, he loved. Matea 1914
