Cantar o Amor e a Morte

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Transitando em misantrópica passada da pior poesia do Mundo para a que melhor o Século XX produziu, chegamos sem detença a Rupert Brooke, nascido a 3 de Agosto. Com todas as vantagens físicas e intelectuais, para não falar das sociais, como filho de académico e primo de Rajás, possuía ainda os invejados excessos do génio e do encanto, tantas vezes incompatíveis num mesmo Senhor. Mobilizado para a chacina de 1914-1918, encontrou uma morte byroniana, ao finar-se febrilmente por causa de uma guerra, mas não na própria guerra, como Owen, Hulme e tantos outros. Nunca chegaria a Darnadelos, mas, previamente, já tinha tido tempo suficiente para exaltar a morte pela Pátria e limitar o amor, antes de, digo eu, ter conhecido o suficiente de ambos, que lhe fizesse ver o traço de união humano entre tal par, com o fiel da balança mais equilibrado. Mas na grandeza desse canto a contrapelo Vos deixo, na melhor das companhias:

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there´s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England´s breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

&

LOVE

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart´s citadel to Fate.
They have known shame who loved unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony´s forgot and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven - such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.