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?