Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/34

 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.