I was walking up Regent Street with a friend. Suddenly he said

– apropos of nothing that I can remember: ‘Do you know the

poems of Rupert Brooke?’

‘I don't think so,’ I replied.

‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself ‘.

‘I am. Tell me about him. Who is he?’

‘He's dead. He went out to the Dardanelles on active service,

and died there of sunstroke’.

‘Was he a real poet?’

‘In my opinion, one of the very few real poets we have ever had’.

‘Then he should have been looked after. A real poet is a precious thing. Why was he allowed to go at all?’

‘He would do. He was twenty-seven, and, as far as I know, unmarried. And he was an athlete. I suppose the call was irresistible’.

‘Perhaps it was destiny’.

‘He seems to have thought that himself. One of the finest things he ever wrote was a poem in which he seemed to expect death’.

‘What a pity’

‘Yes, a thundering pity … Hullo! There's my ‘bus!’

And so he rolled away, and the world of London rolled by, and the soul of the poet hovered over the England he so passionately adored.