Rupert Brooke (Died at the Dardanelles, April, 1915)
You need no praise, nor is this meant to be:
But the sincere and baffled grief of one
Who walked with you under last summer’s sun,
And laughed with you at vain mortality.
An hour, that afternoon, we sat for tea
In a café, upstairs. Time soon had run.
We talked of great things waiting to be done—
Talking, as young men will, ambitiously.
I smiled, then, seeing your open throat, soft tie,
The golden, godlike head, your eyes’ bold blue,
Your burning seriousness—O youth! thought I.
But now (not strange), I think and think of you
Saying that day, “It does not matter why
Men act: what matters most is what men do.”