Lines Written In The Belief That The Ancient Roman Festival Of The Dead Was Called Ambarvalia

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
 And all the world's a song;
"She's far," it sings me, "but fair," it rings me,
 "Quiet," it laughs, "and strong!"

Oh! spite of the miles and years between us,
 Spite of your chosen part,
I do remember; and I go
 With laughter in my heart.

So above the little folk that know not,
 Out of the white hill-town,
High up I clamber; and I remember;
 And watch the day go down.

Gold is my heart, and the world's golden,
 And one peak tipped with light;
And the air lies still about the hill
 With the first fear of night;

Till mystery down the soundless valley
 Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
 And the night is full of fear,

And I know, one night, on some far height,
 In the tongue I never knew,
I yet shall hear the tidings clear
 From them that were friends of you.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,
 Dark and uncomforted,
Earth and sky and the winds; and I
 Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals,
 Nor eat your arval bread;
For the kin of you will surely do
 Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy eyes will water;
 They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.
They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep
 Like flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,
 Bind up your fallen chin,
And lay you straight, the fools that loved you
 Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
 And hush the good away,
And wonder how they'll do without you,
 And then they'll go away.

But quieter than one sleeping,
 And stranger than of old,
You will not stir for weeping,
 You will not mind the cold;

But through the night the lips will laugh not,
 The hands will be in place,
And at length the hair be lying still
 About the quiet face.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
 And dim and decorous mirth,
With ham and sherry, they'll meet to bury
 The lordliest lass of earth.

The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
 Behind lone-riding you,
The heart so high, the heart so living,
 Heart that they never knew.

I shall not hear your trentals,
 Nor eat your arval bread,
Nor with smug breath tell lies of death
 To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
 The folk who loved you not
Will bury you, and go wondering
 Back home. And you will rot.

But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
 With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
 Your Ambarvalia.

Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

Rupert Brooke

Rupert Chawner Brooke was an English poet known for his idealistic war sonnets written during the First World War, especially "The Soldier". more…

All Rupert Brooke poems | Rupert Brooke Books

FAVORITE (0 fans)


Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • Chinese - Simplified 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • Chinese - Traditional 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Spanish Español (Spanish)
  • Esperanto Esperanto (Esperanto)
  • Japanese 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Portuguese Português (Portuguese)
  • German Deutsch (German)
  • Arabic العربية (Arabic)
  • French Français (French)
  • Russian Русский (Russian)
  • Kannada ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • Korean 한국어 (Korean)
  • Hebrew עברית (Hebrew)
  • Ukrainian Український (Ukrainian)
  • Urdu اردو (Urdu)
  • Hungarian Magyar (Hungarian)
  • Hindi मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesian Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italian Italiano (Italian)
  • Tamil தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Turkish Türkçe (Turkish)
  • Telugu తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • Thai ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Vietnamese Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Czech Čeština (Czech)
  • Polish Polski (Polish)
  • Indonesian Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Romanian Românește (Romanian)
  • Dutch Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Greek Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latin Latinum (Latin)
  • Swedish Svenska (Swedish)
  • Danish Dansk (Danish)
  • Finnish Suomi (Finnish)
  • Persian فارسی (Persian)
  • Yiddish ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • Armenian հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norwegian Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English English (English)

Discuss this Rupert Brooke poem with the community:


Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


"Lines Written In The Belief That The Ancient Roman Festival Of The Dead Was Called Ambarvalia" STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 18 Aug. 2019. <>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Other poems by

Rupert Brooke


Our favorite collection of

Famous Poets


Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.