Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916.
VI. Other Poems4. The Chilterns
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Your lips of tenderness
—Oh, I’ve loved you faithfully and well,
Three years, or a bit less.
It wasn’t a success.
Quit of my youth and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do. The tears that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past. The splendour and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again. Give something in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, That have themselves to friend. The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires. The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain. And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true. And I daresay she will do.