Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke — The Wayfarers

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?