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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.
Autres oeuvres par Rupert Brooke...



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