Rupert Chawner Brooke

Blue Evening

   My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
    Knowing that always, exquisitely,
   This April twilight on the river
    Stirs anguish in the heart of me.

   For the fast world in that rare glimmer
    Puts on the witchery of a dream,
   The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
    The fiery windows, and the stream

   With willows leaning quietly over,
    The still ecstatic fading skies . . .
   And all these, like a waiting lover,
    Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,

   Drift close to me, and sideways bending
    Whisper delicious words.
                              But I
   Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
    Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.

   My agony made the willows quiver;
    I heard the knocking of my heart
   Die loudly down the windless river,
    I heard the pale skies fall apart,

   And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
    And my voice with the vocal trees
   Weeping.  And Hatred followed after,
    Shrilling madly down the breeze.

   In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
    A flower in moonlight, she was there,
   Was rippling down white ways of glamour
    Quietly laid on wave and air.

   Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
    Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
   Her feet were silence on the river;
    And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.