March Eighteenth

At The End
...I sat with Rupert. At 4 o’clock he became weaker, and at 4.46 he died, with the sun shining all round his cabin, and the cool sea-breeze blowing through the door and the shaded windows. No one could have wished for a quieter or a calmer end than in that lovely bay, shielded by the mountains and fragrant with sage and thyme.

-- by Rupert Brooke's friend William Denis Browne

March Fifteenth

THESE I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, ringed with blue lines; . . . wet roofs, beneath the lamplight; the strong crust of friendly bread; . . . the rough male kiss of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen unpassioned beauty of a great machine; the benison of hot water; furs to touch; the good smell of old clothes . . .

-- RUPERT BROOKE