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Rupert Brooke - He Wonders Whether To Praise Or To Blame Her
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I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,
 But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.
For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;
 Yet what man lauds the thing he`s thrown away?

Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,
 The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;
But if you`re that high goddess once I thought,
 The more your godhead is, I lose the more.

Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!
 Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!
Most fair, — the blind has lost your face for ever!
 Most foul, — how could I see you while I kissed you?

So . . . the poor love of fools and blind I`ve proved you,
For, foul or lovely, `twas a fool that loved you.
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