Verse > Rupert Brooke > Collected Poems > I. 1905–1908 > 16. The Wayfarers
Rupert Brooke (1887–1915).  Collected Poems. 1916.
I. 1905–1908
16. 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!        5
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,       10
  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?



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