What defines success and how to write about success? The English poet Rupert Brooke did in the poem that has the same title as the subject we are touching. The idealistic poems he wrote, made people calling him Chaucer.
About Rupert Brooke
Rupert Brooke (born Rupert Chawner Brooke, August 3 1887) was an English poet, who wrote beautiful sonnets. He was inspired by the pre World War One world. He wasn’t allowed to grow, for he died at the age of 27 on April 23 1915.
“The handsomest young man in England”, that was one way to describe him. This description came from no other than William Butler Yeats. This poet started publishing his work at the beginning of the twentieth century. During his period as a student at King’s College, he made some friends in the literary world. He decided to break with the group that is identified as the Georgian Poets, when he was dealing with his own sexuality in 1912. He decided to spend some time in Germany, United States and Canada. He also travelled the Pacific.
When World War One started, Brooke was commissioned into the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve as a sub-lieutenant. On February 28 1915, he got sick. He was stung by a mosquito. The sepsis that followed lead to his death on April 23 of that same year.
What defines success? When it comes to love, there are many of us who ask the questions why a relationship wasn’t successful. Why was the ending coming at moment that is considered as too soon or too late? Here we find the poet Brooke, who dwells on this all. Let’s not forget, that Brooke was struggling with his sexuality. Although the poem was written in 1910, one can not see this poem apart from the events that took place in 1912. When he decided to break up and spend time abroad.
I think if you had loved me when I wanted;
If I’d looked up one day, and seen your eyes,
And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted,
And your brown face, that’s full of pity and wise,
Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear
Intolerably so struggling, and so shamed;
Most holy and far, if you’d come all too near,
If earth had seen Earth’s lordliest wild limbs tamed,
Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for my touch —
Myself should I have slain? or that foul you?
But this the strange gods, who had given so much,
To have seen and known you, this they might not do.
One last shame’s spared me, one black word’s unspoken;
And I’m alone; and you have not awoken.
— Rupert Brooke
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