No poet since Francis Thompson has won such immediate acceptance as Rupert Brooke. He came, he sang, he conquered. He was a sudden voice; a voice that died away suddenly far from the land he sang and loved. And his death gave a new life to his song.

In Thompson the critics had found a poet complete, crowned in his own right with his own imperishable bays, a poet’s poet. They were denied the luxury of watching him grow. While they slept he had taken Parnassus at a bound. They woke to find him with nothing to learn and everything to teach. He let loose upon them The Hound of Heaven, and from that moment they were prepared for anything. His vision had no limitations but the horizons of beauty and truth; it was a spiritual unity that had no parts; it was so comprehensive that it could enclose eternity in a poppy's fragile cup. His moods were all one mood : a mood towards God by which he interpreted everything aright.

Brooke was saluted in his own day as a poet who would become great. Certain undoubted successes convinced men that he would undoubtedly be a success. Until then he was the most interesting of the younger poets. He conducted his emotional and poetical education in public; that, was the abiding interest. He faltered and swerved and failed many times. But always the conviction prevailed that he would one day find his feet and run in the straight and find with certain eye the goal.