Song
The way of love was thus.
He was born one wintry morn
With hands delicious,
And it was well with us.
Love came our quiet way,
Lit pride in us, and died in us,
All in a winter's day.
There is no more to say.
poem by Rupert Brooke from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, With a Memoir (1913)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
