The Life Beyond
Rupert Brooke
He wakes, who never thought to wake again, Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies; And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, Like a dry branch. No life is in that land, Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries; An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck Of moveless horror; an Immortal One Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse’s neck. I thought when love for you died, I should die. It’s dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
Next 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : The Little Dog's Day
- Rupert Brooke : The Night Journey
- Rupert Brooke : The Old Vicarage, Granchester
- Rupert Brooke : The Old Vicarage, Grantchester
- Rupert Brooke : The One Before The Last
- Rupert Brooke : The Soldier
- Rupert Brooke : The Song Of The Beasts
- Rupert Brooke : The Song Of The Pilgrims
- Rupert Brooke : The Treasure
- Rupert Brooke : The True Beatitude ( Bouts-rimes )
Previous 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : The Jolly Company
- Rupert Brooke : The Hill
- Rupert Brooke : The Great Lover
- Rupert Brooke : The Goddess In The Wood
- Rupert Brooke : The Funeral Of Youth: Threnody
- Rupert Brooke : The Fish
- Rupert Brooke : The Dead: Iv
- Rupert Brooke : The Dead ( Ii )
- Rupert Brooke : The Dead
- Rupert Brooke : The Dance