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by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Because God put His adamantine fate
   Between my sullen heart and its desire,
I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate,
   Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire.
Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy,
   But Love was as a flame about my feet;
   Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat
Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry---

All the great courts were quiet in the sun,
   And full of vacant echoes: moss had grown
Over the glassy pavement, and begun
   To creep within the dusty council-halls.
An idle wind blew round an empty throne
   And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls.


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Page last updated: 15 August 1998
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