The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Brooke Rupert

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      Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,

       And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.

       The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.

       I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,

       Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making

       Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned.

       There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking;

       And over the unmoving sea, without a sound,

       Faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight,

       Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming

       And marble sand. …

       Beyond the shifting cold twilight,

       Further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming,

       There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands! But the drear

       Waste darkening, and, at length, flame ultimate on the deep.

       Oh, the last fire—and you, unkissed, unfriended there!

       Oh, the lone way's red ending, and we not there to weep!

       (We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers,

       Lovely and secret as a child. You came with us,

       Came happily, hand in hand with the young dancing hours,

       High on the downs at dawn!) Void now and tenebrous,

       The grey sands curve before me. …

       From the inland meadows,

       Fragrant of June and clover, floats the dark, and fills

       The hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows,

       And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.

       Close in the nest is folded every weary wing,

       Hushed all the joyful voices; and we, who held you dear,

       Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering …

       Day that I loved, day that I loved, the Night is here!

Sleeping Out: Full Moon

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      They sleep within. …

       I cower to the earth, I waking, I only.

       High and cold thou dreamest, O queen, high-dreaming and lonely.

       We have slept too long, who can hardly win

       The white one flame, and the night-long crying;

       The viewless passers; the world's low sighing

       With desire, with yearning,

       To the fire unburning,

       To the heatless fire, to the flameless ecstasy! …

       Helpless I lie.

       And around me the feet of thy watchers tread.

       There is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head,

       An intolerable radiance of wings. …

       All the earth grows fire,

       White lips of desire

       Brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things.

       Earth fades; and the air is thrilled with ways,

       Dewy paths full of comfort. And radiant bands,

       The gracious presence of friendly hands,

       Help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays,

       Stretching wavering hands, up, up, through the praise

       Of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries,

       To all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height,

       To the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes,

       And the laughter, and the lips, of light.

In Examination

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      Lo! from quiet skies

       In through the window my Lord the Sun!

       And my eyes

       Were dazzled and drunk with the misty gold,

       The golden glory that drowned and crowned me

       Eddied and swayed through the room …

       Around me,

       To left and to right,

       Hunched figures and old,

       Dull blear-eyed scribbling fools, grew fair,

       Ringed round and haloed with holy light.

       Flame lit on their hair,

       And their burning eyes grew young and wise,

       Each as a God, or King of kings,

       White-robed and bright

       (Still scribbling all);

       And a full tumultuous murmur of wings

       Grew through the hall;

       And I knew the white undying Fire,

       And, through open portals,

       Gyre on gyre,

       Archangels and angels, adoring, bowing,

       And a Face unshaded …

       Till the light faded;

       And they were but fools again, fools unknowing,

       Still scribbling, blear-eyed and stolid immortals.