I picked up a Rupert Brooke anthology whilst helping my pa move house the other day and after reading up about him on the internet found myself wondering why, oh, why had it taken me so long to discover him! A few of his poems brought tears to my eyes. There's something comforting in the knowledge that I can still be so acutely affected by the written word. Something that, however fleetingly, can lift the deadening weight on my chest. I guess I'm an old romantic at heart.
The Busy Heart
Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,
I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)
I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;
Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;
And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;
And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;
And evening hush, broken by homing wings;
And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,
That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,
Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,
One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
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