Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/32

 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!