Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/73

 Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,

Strews pinkish dust above,

And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!

But this —ah, God!—is Love!"

—Better oblivion hide dead true loves,

Better the night enfold,

Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,

Should lie about the old!

Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.

But here's the worst of it—

I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,

You ever hurt abit!