Rupert Brooke. Now there's a boyo who's reputation and life's work were blown away by subsequent events. After writing a series of sentimental and patriotic sonnets he died of blood poisoning on a troop ship enroute to Gallipoli. Had he survived that hellhole his Georgian poetics might have undergone the same seachange as Wilfred Owens.
His Heaven is, hands down, the finest piece of light verse ever written.
I wouldn't say his work is good/bad; it's uniformly excellent, sometimes verging on great. But History has disowned him.
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