Poem by Rupert Chawner Brooke

Paralysis

   For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
    That never were swift!  Still all I prize,
   Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
    No fool to heave luxurious sighs
   For the woods and hills that I never knew.
   The more excellent way's yet mine!  And you

   Flower-laden come to the clean white cell,
    And we talk as ever -- am I not the same?
   With our hearts we love, immutable,
    You without pity, I without shame.
   We talk as of old; as of old you go
   Out under the sky, and laughing, I know,

   Flit through the streets, your heart all me;
    Till you gain the world beyond the town.
   Then -- I fade from your heart, quietly;
    And your fleet steps quicken.  The strong down
   Smiles you welcome there; the woods that love you
   Close lovely and conquering arms above you.

   O ever-moving, O lithe and free!
    Fast in my linen prison I press
   On impassable bars, or emptily
    Laugh in my great loneliness.
   And still in the white neat bed I strive
   Most impotently against that gyve;
   Being less now than a thought, even,
   To you alone with your hills and heaven.

1. The Great Lover
2. The Dance
3. Song (The way of love was thus)
4. The Funeral of Youth: Threnody
5. Fragment on Painters

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