Some years ago, I went to the funeral service of an old friend, who was a simple and plain man and his son had chosen a reading for his father's funeral service, which I'd forgotten about until this morning, when I heard it on Mark Tulley's excellent early morning programme on Radio4 called "Something Understood". This is the piece which was written by Rupert brooke and read by his son at my friend's farewell service - it seemed to sum up exactly his simple love of life and friends:"These I have loved:White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crustOf friendly bread; and many-tasting food;Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned beauty of a great machine;The benison of hot water; furs to touch;The good smell of old clothes; and other such The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns...Dear names,And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;Holes in the groud; and voices that do sing;Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,Whatever passes not, in the great hour,Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have powerTo hold them with me through the gate of Death.They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers...But the best I've knownStays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved"."
Gerry Tan ● 6382d