I have known the most dear that is granted us here, More supreme than the gods know above, Like a star I was hurled through the sweet of the world, And the height and the light of it, Love. I have risen to the uttermost Heaven of Joy, I have sunk to the sheer Hell of Pain-- But--it's not going to happen again, my boy, It's not going to happen again. It's the very first word that poor Juliet heard From her Romeo over the Styx; And the Roman will tell Cleopatra in hell When she starts her immortal old tricks; What Paris was tellin' for good-bye to Helen When he bundled her into the train-- Oh, it's not going to happen again, old girl, It's not going to happen again. Chateau Lake Louise, Canada, 1913. The Little Dog's Day All in the town were still asleep, When the sun came up with a shout and a leap. In the lonely streets unseen by man, A little dog danced. And the day began. All his life he'd been good, as far as he could, And the poor little beast had done all that he should. But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor And the Canine Valhalla--he'd stand it no more! So his prayer he got granted--to do just what he wanted, Prevented by none, for the space of one day. "Jam incipiebo [1], sedere facebo [2]," In dog-Latin he quoth, "Euge! sophos! hurray!" He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs, A thing that had never been heard of before. "For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button!" he Cried, and ate all he could swallow--and more. He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps, And mangled the errand-boys--when he could get 'em. He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies [3], And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate' em! They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel, And sent for the parson to drive him away; For the town never knew such a hullabaloo As that little dog raised--till the end of that day. When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, And the lights were lit in the little town, Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey, The little dog died when he'd had his day. July 1907. [Footnote 1: Now we're off] [Footnote 2: I'll make them sit up.] [Footnote 3: Pronounce either to suit rhyme.] [End of Poems.] London, October, 1915. Rupert Brooke: A Biographical Note Any biographical account of Rupert Brooke must of necessity be brief; yet it is well to know the facts of his romantic career, and to see him as far as may be through the eyes of those who knew him (the writer was unfortunately not of this number) in order the better to appreciate his work.