| Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916. |
| |
| IV. 1914 |
| 1. I. Peace |
| |
| NOW, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour, | |
| And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, | |
| With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, | |
| To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, | |
| Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, | 5 |
| Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, | |
| And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, | |
| And all the little emptiness of love! | |
| |
| Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there, | |
| Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, | 10 |
| Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; | |
| Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there | |
| But only agony, and that has ending; | |
| And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. | |
|
|
