Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916.
II. 1908191111. The One Before the Last
I D
With the One Before the Last,
And smiled to greet the pleasant pain
Of that innocent young past.
The pain when it did live, How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten Were Hell in Nineteen-five. The boy’s love just as true, And the One Before the Last, my dear, Hurt quite as much as you. Wrongs the unanswering tomb, And sentimentalizes over What earned a better doom. Strews pinkish dust above, And sighs, “The dear dead boyish pastime! But this—ah, God!—is Love!” Better the night enfold, Than men, to eke the praise of new loves, Should lie about the old! But here’s the worst of it— I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty, You ever hurt abit!