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by Rupert Brooke, 1916

For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
  That never were swift! Still all I prize,
Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
  No fool to heave luxurious sighs
For the woods and hills that I never knew.
The more excellent way's yet mine! And you

Flower-laden come to the clean white cell,
  And we talk as ever—am I not the same?
With our hearts we love, immutable,
  You without pity, I without shame.
We talk as of old; as of old you go
Out under the sky, and laughing, I know,

Flit through the streets, your heart all me;
  Till you gain the world beyond the town.
Then—i fade from your heart, quietly;
  And your fleet steps quicken. The strong down
Smiles you welcome there; the woods that love you
Close lovely and conquering arms above you.

O ever-moving, O lithe and free!
  Fast in my linen prison I press
On impassable bars, or emptily
  Laugh in my great loneliness.
And still in the white neat bed I strive
Most impotently against that gyve;
Being less now than a thought, even,
To you alone with your hills and heaven.

Published in The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.