Not mine Part of this Rupert Brook poem was set to music by Fleetwood Macs Danny Kirwan. It was uncredited to Brook on early releases of the album, but Brook would be cited in later pressings. Dust by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the worlds delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night; When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labour of my breath--- When we are dust, when we are dust!--- Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, Well ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died, And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind. And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways, Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust thats I Shall meet one atom that was you. Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunsets afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there, Theyll know not if its fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light, Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know---poor fools, theyll know!--- One moment, what it is to love.
Posted on: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 00:23:59 +0000
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