Song ( Iii )
Rupert Brooke
The way of love was thus. He was born one winter morn With hands delicious, And it was well with us. Love came our quiet way, Lit pride in us, and died in us, All in a winter’s day. There is no more to say.
Next 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : Song Of A Tribe Of The Ancient Egyptians
- Rupert Brooke : Song Of The Beasts, The
- Rupert Brooke : Song Of The Pilgrims, The
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet ( Suggested By Some Of The Proceedings Of The Society For Psychical Research )
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet Reversed
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet: I Said I Splendidly Loved You; It's Not True
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet: Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire
- Rupert Brooke : Success
- Rupert Brooke : The Beginning
