The Day that Youth had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the countrys ends,
Those scatterd friends
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,
In feast and wine and many-crownd carouse,
The days and nights and dawnings of the time
When Youth kept open house,
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,
No quest of his unshard
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bard,
Followed their old friends bier.
Folly went first,
With muffled bells and coxcomb still reversd;
And after trod the bearers, hat in hand
Laughter, most hoarse, and Captain Pride with tanned
And martial face all grim, and fussy Joy
Who had to catch a train, and Lust, poor, snivelling boy;
These bore the dear departed.
Behind them, broken-hearted,
Came Grief, so noisy a widow, that all said,
Had he but wed
Her elder sister Sorrow, in her stead!
And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,
The fatherless children, Colour, Tune, and Rhyme
(The sweet lad Rhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.
Then, at the ways sad ending,
Round the raw grave they stayd. Old Wisdom read,
In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.
There stood Romance,
The furrowing tears had markd her roug?d cheek;
Poor old Conceit, his wonder unassuaged;
Dead Innocencys daughter, Ignorance;
And shabby, ill-dressd Generosity;
And Argument, too full of woe to speak;
Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;
And Friendshipnot a minute older, she;
Impatience, ever taking out his watch;
Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch
Old Wisdoms endless drone.
Beauty was there,
Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.
Poor mazd Imagination; Fancy wild;
Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;
Contentment, who had known Youth as a child
And never seen him since. And Spring came too,
Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers
She did not stay for long.
And Truth, and Grace, and all the merry crew,
The laughing Winds and Rivers, and lithe Hours;
And Hope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing Song;
Yes, with much woe and mourning general,
At dead Youths funeral,
Even these were met once more together, all,
Who erst the fair and living Youth did know;
All, except only Love. Love had died long ago.
The Funeral of Youth: Threnody
written byRupert Brooke
© Rupert Brooke