Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/43

 In little houses lovable,

Being happy (we remember how!)

And peaceful even to death. . ..

O Thou,

God of all long desirous roaming,

Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,

And crying after lost desire.

Hearten us onward! as with fire

Consuming dreams of other bliss.

The best Thou givest, giving this

Sufficient thing—to travel still

Over the plain, beyond the hill,

Unhesitating through the shade,

Amid the silence unafraid,

Till, at some sudden turn, one sees

Against the black and muttering trees

Thine altar, wonderfully white,

Among the Forests of the Night.