Rupert
Brooke .
Gentle
and
brown , above
the
pool?
And
laughs the immortal
river
still
Under
the mill, under
the mill ?
Say, is there
Beauty
yet
to
find ?
And
Certainty ?
And
Quiet kind ?
Deep meadows
yet ,
for
to
forget
The lies
,
and truths
,
and
pain
?
.
.
.
oh
!
yet
Stands
the
Church
clock
at
ten
-
to-
three
?
And
is
there honey
still for
tea
?