Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke — The One Before the Last

The One Before the Last I dreamt I was in love again With the One Before the Last, And smiled to greet the pleasant pain Of that innocent young past.

But I jumped to feel how sharp had been The pain when it did live, How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten Were Hell in Nineteen-five.

The boy's woe was as keen and clear, The boy's love just as true, And the One Before the Last, my dear, Hurt quite as much as you.

* * * * * Sickly I pondered how the lover Wrongs the unanswering tomb, And sentimentalizes over What earned a better doom.

Gently he tombs the poor dim last time, Strews pinkish dust above, And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!

But THIS -- ah, God!

-- is Love!"

-- Better oblivion hide dead true loves, Better the night enfold, Than men, to eke the praise of new loves, Should lie about the old!

* * * * *