He spent the following winter training in England, and then joined the British Expeditionary Forces for the Dardanelles. He never reached there, however, for he died at Scyros on April 23, 1915, and was buried by torchlight at night, in an olive grove on the island.
One of his friends, Wilfred Gibson, has paid a beautiful tribute to him in a short poem entitled "The Going." It is a tribute that might well be offered to any of the thousands of young heroes from many lands who have gone with a sudden glory in their young eyes to give all, that human liberty should not be lost.
He's gone.
I do not understand.
I only know
That, as he turned to go,
And waved his hand,
In his young eyes a sudden glory shone,
And I was dazzled by a sunset glow—
And he was gone
Death appeared to be in his mind constantly after his terrible experience at Antwerp, but he seems never to have feared it. It is really the subject of all of his five sonnets written in 1914, and these are the best of his work. He thought constantly of England and of all that she had done for him and meant to him. He thought also of the little meaningful things of life, and put them into these sonnets—dawn, sunset, the beautiful colors of the earth, music, flowers, the feel of furs, and the touch of a cheek. Strange that he should have thought of the touching of fur. It probably gave him a strange sensation as it does to many. And then he thought of water and its movement in the wind, and its warmth under the sun, which seemed to him like life, just as its freezing under the frost seemed to him like death. All of this and more he put into a beautiful sonnet entitled "The Dead."
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colors of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
[79] And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Note how significant is every human experience which he mentions from "the quick stir of wonder" which the youth feels, to the kindness which comes with years. "They had seen movement" is strange, and yet many like Rupert Brooke are fascinated with movement and see life chiefly in motion,—in smiles and steps.
His finest poem, however, is the last of the five sonnets and is entitled "The Soldier." Here he pours out his heart in love of England and in the pride that he feels in being an Englishman. Read France or America or some other worthy homeland in place of England and it will appeal to other hearts beside Englishmen. It is a beautiful poem, one that will live forever.
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever 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;
[80] Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.