| Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916. |
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| I. 1905–1908 |
| 16. The Wayfarers |
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| 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. | |
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| …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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