The Busy Heart by Rupert Brooke

Now that we’ve done our best and worst, and parted, 
I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend. 
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted) 
I’ll think of Love in books, Love without end; 
Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain; 
And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping; 
And the young heavens, forgetful after rain; 
And evening hush, broken by homing wings; 
And Song’s nobility, and Wisdom holy,
That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things, 
Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly, 
One after one, like tasting a sweet food. 
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.