Poem by Rupert Chawner Brooke

The Wayfarers

   Is it the hour?  We leave this resting-place
    Made fair by one another for a while.
   Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace;
    The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
   Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
   Oh, I'll remember! but... each crawling day
   Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
    Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.

   ...Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere,
    The desert's edge, last of the lands we know,
       Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,
    In which I'll find you waiting; and we'll go
   Together, hand in hand again, out there,
       Into the waste we know not, into the night?

1. Lines Written in the Belief That the Ancient Roman Festival of the Dead Was Called Ambarvalia
2. Sonnet: in Time of Revolt
3. The True Beatitude
4. Thoughts on the Shape of the Human Body
5. I Said I Splendidly Loved You; It's Not True

George Evans The Wayfarers ("Still the white stars burn overhead")

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