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The Chilterns a poem by Rupert Brooke

The Chilterns

Your hands, my dear, adorable, 
Your lips of tenderness 
-Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well, 
Three years, or a bit less. 
It wasn't a success. 

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road, 
Quit of my youth and you, 
The Roman road to Wendover 
By Tring and Lilley Hoo, 
As a free man may do. 

For youth goes over, the joys that fly, 
The tears that follow fast; 
And the dirtiest things we do must lie 
Forgotten at the last; 
Even love goes past. 

What's left behind I shall not find, 
The splendor and the pain; 
The splash of sun, the shouting wind, 
And the brave sting of rain, 
I may not meet again. 

But the years, that take the best away, 
Give something in the end; 
And a better friend than love have they, 
For none to mar or mend, 
That have themselves to friend. 

I shall desire and I shall find 
The best of my desires; 
The autumn road, the mellow wind 
That soothes the darkening shires. 
And laughter, and inn-fires. 

White mist about the black hedgerows, 
The slumbering Midland plain, 
The silence where the clover grows, 
And the dead leaves in the lane, 
Certainly, these remain. 

And I shall find some girl perhaps, 
And a better one than you, 
With eyes as wise, but kindlier, 
With lips as soft, but true. 
And I daresay she will do.

The Chilterns
Rupert Brooke
 


The Chilterns poem - Rupert Brooke

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

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