Rupert Brooke

“ Never to them comes Death as to the free,
—The swift unbearable horror, and the night
That shrouds the horror; no stern mystery,
Veiled in the old impenetrable gloom,
Quenches their faltering light.
Nor theirs the fear those revellers know, to whom
Sudden across Life's clamorous laughing rout
The clear inexorable voices call,
Bidding them from this luminous festival
To the dim Unknown without.
Not so look these toward our Lady Death,
But as a well-loved friend in gentle wise
She seeks them ”

“ France, as a sleeper, dumb, unheeding, lay;
Till a swift thunder thrilled the heavy air,
The purple gloom grew pallid; and at length
She from her slumber stirred, and woke to greet
Liberty, young and fair,
—Fair as a god, triumphant in his strength,
Shades of the night still clinging about his feet,
But the glory of the sunrise on his hair. ”

“ Ravenous, hoarse, dark-menacing as Fate,.........
—Till a great cry goes crashing heavenward,
And the Bastille is won!
Then, as the sun-forsaken drowsy air
Welcometh night, beneficent, dreamy-starred,
No hand may rest till stone be torn from stone,
Each infamy laid bare,
And tyranny's ancient stronghold overthrown.
Freedom is gained! The exultant paeans rise,
Noise of great ruining, and a sudden glare,
As fire victorious storms the trembling skies. ”